


the slaughter of the lambs

by apocalyvse



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: (mostly), Action/Adventure, Angst, Blood and Violence, Canon Compliant, Character Death, Gen, Masyaf, Novices, Post AC1, a fic in four parts, four parts that are way longer than i meant for them to be but it's fine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2019-10-01 05:20:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17238161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocalyvse/pseuds/apocalyvse
Summary: “Dai?” Marwa asks as he swings up and onto his horse.He pauses. “What is it, Marwa?”“Are there Templars in the mountains?”Malik frowns, and for a moment she thinks she is definitely in trouble for asking such a question. “I think you already know the answer to this,” he tells her instead, and turns to look at the mountains like their enemies are visible from Masyaf.





	1. PART I - masyaf's young

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Welcome!
> 
> You can see the cover for this fic [here](https://i.ibb.co/8mRnTW1/jamais-vu.png).

 

#  PART 1

\-------------------------------

_masyaf’s young_


	2. return from acre

The rain has been falling for two days straight now, a steady downpour that soaks Masyaf from the peaks of the mountains down to the gates, where soldiers stand in sodden armour and huddle by braziers, hoping the wet weather won’t dampen the flames they hold. It is not uncommon, this wet, cold weather, not 20 days into winter, and it is not unwelcome either - later in the season, there would be grumbling from everyone about the chill in the air, but now, so soon after summer has slipped away, it is a welcome relief from the heat. Even snow might be heralded as good fortune over these few days, though it is a little early yet for the mountains to properly freeze over, and snow would not be welcome for long. It turns streets to muck and roofs and ledges to slippery, dangerous places, and children like to throw it at each other only to catch a cold and infect the entire village. They are not Acre, where people seem to revel in living in squalor.

The path to the castle, steep and winding even on a good day, has turned to a river of mud under the feet of Masyaf’s soldiers, and the walls of earth surrounding it do not offer any support to the souls that try to climb it - not even the three novices that arrive in the fading grey light of the afternoon, soaked and exhausted by the hard ride home. They walk in a line, surefooted Duma at the fore. Na’im flounders in the middle, and Marwa is a step behind him, pushing him up the path with an impatience that belies her age and rank. Perhaps that is why none of the soldiers posted around the place jeer at them as they slop up the path in white tunics quickly turning brown in the mud. Or perhaps the guards just don’t care for teasing novices today.

Na’im falls for the last time right at the top of the mountain, one step below solid ground. He falls heavily this time too, splashing mud all over himself and Marwa too, who is walking right behind him. Duma, ever graceful, walks on into the castle, unaware (or uncaring) of Na’im’s troubles. Marwa curses, and makes sure to kick him in the shin as she reaches to help him.

“Can you be any more clumsy?” she asks, and heaves him out of the mud and onto his feet. It is no easy feat - Na’im is tall and built to be strong and sinewy, while her form is distinctly more feminine, lacking the strength she is training to gain. Just right for those fine gowns, her mother would say wistfully every now and then, when she stops to watch Marwa follow her father’s footsteps.

“It is a hard climb,” Na’im mutters, and shakes her hands away. “And I am tired.”

“We are all tired,” Marwa snaps back, and he gives her a look of annoyance and then hurries off after Duma, not one to actually get into a fight with her out here in the rain.

She does not run to catch them once she is out of the mud herself, with solid rock under her feet and the shelter of the castle gate just steps away. Instead, she stops and cranes her neck so that she can look up at the walls of the assassin stronghold. It is a dark, foreboding sight in this weather, with its cold stone and walls so scarcely guarded they almost appear abandoned. The flags and banners do not fly in the wind today but rather hang limp and heavy with water, a mess of deep crimson and grey material, the crest they bear hidden in their folds so that it is nigh impossible to tell whose castle you have even come to. Flags are a symbol of power, she remarks to herself, except in the pouring rain.

Masyaf is only unwelcoming on these sorts of days - in the summer, with the bustle of a crowd and the warm light of the sun to soften it, it is almost too easy to forget it is a fortress seated at the peak of a mountain. Now it is dark and angry, and has she not grown up under its long shadow, she might not dare walk through its gates at all.

“Marwa!” Duma calls from somewhere up ahead as the rain grows more persistent. Shaking her head, she pulls her hood further over her face and hurries inside, shivering in the cold wind that whistles through the open gate. The courtyard immediately behind the wall is only slightly more sheltered from the weather, though still equally filled with puddles and muddy, well-worn paths. She finds Duma and Na’im immediately to her right, huddled together by a small brazier with two soldiers.

“Here you are,” Duma says. “Do you like standing out in the rain?”

“Perhaps the rain is a better companion than you,” Marwa replies, and lets her sodden hood drop to her shoulders.

“The closer you keep, the sooner you can escape my company,” Duma points out, and then turns his eyes towards the castle proper. “Come, we need to find the Dai before we can rest.”

It is another climb to the inner keep, but there is less mud inside the castle and Na’im has had time to steady his feet, so Marwa does not have to shove him quite so much. It is cold inside, but dry, apart from the puddles their robes drip across the stone floor. None of the novices notice the chill though, because the man they are looking for happens to be right there, standing in the hall with the Mentor.

“Dai,” Duma says as they cross the draughty hall, bowing his head in respect. “Mentor.” Na’im, ever the follower, does the same, hurrying along by Duma’s elbow. Marwa trails along behind, and lets the boys deal with the pleasantries.

Malik turns at the mention of his title, and the Mentor turns with him. Under their sharp eyes, Marwa’s stride becomes more urgent - she can get away with it with the Dai, but the Mentor, the leader of the Assassins...better not to push her luck.

“Well now, it seems my novices have returned,” Malik says, mainly to the man beside him. “Maybe they have learned something in the travels that they can teach you.”

Duma breathes in sharply, surprised by their master’s careless words. The Mentor merely smiles at the ribbing, however, and eyes each of them individually. “We can only hope,” he replies easily. “Two of them seem to have learnt respect, if nothing else.” His gaze settles on Marwa, unquestioning, and she feels like his eyes might cut through her.

“Well, we cannot all be perfect,” the Dai remarks in good humour, and then turns to address the novices as a whole. “You must be tired and cold. Go find yourselves a meal and a place to dry off, and I will come and speak with you when I am finished here.”

“Yes, Dai,” Duma says dutifully and herds them away, grabbing Marwa by the arm before she can even think to depart company. She lets him drag her with them into the castle proper before making any kind of complaint, aware of the eyes on their backs.

As soon as they are free of the masters watching, she decides she’s had enough. “Get off, Duma,” she says, and tries to pull free from his grip. “I can take myself to the kitchens.”

“You must stay with us,” he tells her firmly, but lets her go. She rolls her eyes and drops to the back of the pack, putting Na’im between them again.

“How can the Dai speak to the Mentor like that?” the quieter boy asks when it is clear the other two are done squabbling.

“They are friends,” Duma answers. “And equals. You would speak to any novice the same way, wouldn’t you?”

“There is a difference between being novices and masters,” Na’im insists. “Or a Dai and a Mentor.”

Marwa huffs an impatient sigh. “Our Mentor is the reason Dai Malik lost his arm,” she explains. “And many other things. If anyone deserves to speak to him without respect, it is the Dai.”

“Fine words from one who couldn’t even bow to either of her elders,” Duma observes.

“You bow low enough for both of us, Duma,” Marwa bites back, and ignores the withering look he shoots at her. They turn the corner to the dining hall then, and are all distracted by the smell of a stew cooking, and the rush of warm air from the large fireplace that keeps the room warm all through the winter. The hall is bustling, as the evening meal has just begun and assassins from around the castle have gathered to dine. They line up to fill their plates with food, stomach rumbling at the thought of their first hot meal in two days, and then find themselves a seat near the fireplace where they can be warmed through, saving a place for the Dai. Even Marwa has to admit it is a good place to be - Duma convinces some of the older novices and higher-ranking apprentices to allow them a place, their dripping robes and haggard appearances a testament to the hard day of riding he claims them to have had, and the fire has them warm in minutes, if a little uncomfortable in their wet clothes.

“It’s good to be home,” Na’im says, mostly to Duma, who hums in agreement. His mouth is too full of food to answer properly.

Marwa’s eyes wander across the hall as she chews her first bite, settling on a group of other novices, who are all gathered around one boy with varying looks of awe on their faces. “Look at Farid,” she says and gestures to the boy at the centre of the commotion.

Na’im follows her finger and Duma turns to see what she’s talking about, just as Farid raises his left hand. “He has earned the second rank,” Duma says in faint surprise, and turns back around so that he will not have to watch anymore.

“Why would anyone choose to raise the rank of Farid?” Marwa asks in faint disgust, and yes, she can see it now – only four fingers remain on his left hand, despite him having five the last time she’d seen him. It’s a sure sign that the brotherhood has officially accepted him as an initiate, one rank higher than novice. She has no doubt he will put his newfound position to good use lording it over them all within the next few days.

Duma shrugs in response to her question, carefully refraining from any involvement. Duma is smart like that. “I believe he simply performed his tasks to the satisfaction of the assassin that trains him,” the voice of Malik, their own master, says beside her as he slides into the seat they have saved for him.

Marwa doesn’t respond in words but curls her lip in disgust at the thought of Farid being any kind of loyal or skilled novice. Surely it must be a trick.

“You don’t like this boy?” Malik adds, not one to miss a single thing. “Or perhaps you like him too much.”

She looks horrified, much to the delight of the boys across the table. “He is a bully and an idiot,” she tells the Dai, before he gets any more ideas.

“Ah.” Their master nods in understanding. “Well, there is plenty of time to knock that out of him before he is set loose on the world. Just like there is time to teach you some manners.”

Marwa turned abruptly, Farid forgotten. “Manners?” she repeats, and then scoffs. “Manners are for those pretty girls at fine parties, hoping to prove themselves worthy of some attention.”

“They’re also for men to show respect to their commanders and their masters, so that an army might grow strong, or a business wealthy.” He is looking right at her, but she has elected to stare into her bowl instead now, not fond of being criticised. “You have decided to be a woman in a brotherhood, Marwa. I suggest you stop living by a woman’s way of doing things.”

“I have never lived like that,” she mutters childishly. Malik just shakes his head and turns away.

“We have been successful in our mission, Dai,” Duma speaks up, when no one else will. “I think you will be pleased.”

Malik turns towards him, and his usual good mood returns. “Tell me then,” he says. “What you have learnt while you have been away.”

“That Acre is the filthiest city in the world,” Marwa mutters under her breath.

“And how many cities have you been to, novice?” Malik snaps back. She doesn’t leave a snide comment a second time.

Duma shoots her a look. “Iyad Salib is a merchant of the seas. He deals in strays and orphans and beggar women.” Malik nods and gestures for him to continue. “Na’im walked among the people to hear their whisperings, and discovered that many children who are not orphans on the street have been disappearing as of late. He also heard a man telling story of Salib’s ship having pulled close to the eastern wall of the harbour, to take cargo and escape a coming storm. Marwa pick-pocketed a man with a letter describing the time and place the next shipment would be loaded. I met with one of the rafiq’s informants in the city, who told me of Salib’s practises – he never leaves the ship, and has scores of men to protect him. The time he is weakest is when he inspects his cargo on the deck of his ship before taking them below.”

“Good,” the Dai says, and he does sound satisfied with what he has heard. “And the assassination? He is dead?”

“Tariq was chosen by the rafiq to do the killing, as only one of us has a blade,” Duma says. “He came back with an hour of the bell tolling to tell us of his success.”

“Very good. I’m sure the rafiq will send many praises in his letter to me, whenever the bird makes it through this storm.” As if summoned by his words, the rain outside grew louder, hammering at the windows on the west side of the room.

“And the ranks?” asks Na’im, who has been waiting a long while to be allowed a blade and a place in the brotherhood. His eyes have strayed to Farid, who swaggers to and fro across the room, apparently having missed Malik’s presence (or indeed, any of the other master assassins in the room).

Malik looks at him also, and Marwa thinks maybe he sees just what she had been saying earlier. “We will see,” he says eventually, distracted by some other thought. “We wouldn’t want you to turn out anything like Abbas’ favourite student, after all.”

They all look once more to Farid. “I understand, Dai,” Na’im says humbly.

Malik stands and reaches across the table to slap him on the shoulder. “And that is what will earn you a blade,” he says. “You are dismissed, novices. Eat and sleep, I will find you when I want you tomorrow.”

“Safety and peace, Malik,” Duma farewells him, and the Dai inclines his head in thanks.

“Safety and peace,” he replies, and then he departs, with just a quick detour across the room to slap Farid upside the head and give him a taste of his sharp tongue.

“Why would you ask about ranks?” Marwa rounds on Na’im as soon as he is gone. “It is for the masters to decide when we advance, not for you to ask.”

Na’im curls in on himself, focusing on his food instead of her. Duma sighs. “Don’t be like that tonight, Marwa,” he just about begs. “It has been too long a day for this nonsense.”

“If I had asked about ranks, you would be the one yelling at me,” she points out. “But Na’im can do anything he pleases.”

“What rubbish! He was only asking, it will not kill anyone.”

“I have been waiting twice as long as you,” Na’im says, half as loud as Duma. “Through three different masters. I would give two fingers to wield a blade and be done with the scorn of the others that advance far faster than I ever will.”

“Malik has not been unfair to us yet, why would he keep you down longer than he needs to?”

“I thought it would not hurt to ask.”

“ _Khallas_ ,” Duma says, cutting across them. “No more talk of this. The master took no offense to the question, it is done.”

Marwa is not happy, but she doesn’t say anything more, just sets her jaw and retreats back to her stew to sulk in silence. A tense moment passes between the boys, as if they aren’t sure if the arguing is finished or not. When Duma is satisfied that she is finished, he says, “I have wondered too, if you will soon get a blade.”

Na’im makes a noise of surprise. “Really?” he asks, as if Duma would be making a joke.

The other boy nods solemnly. “They have kept you waiting a long time, Na’im,” he says. “You are not the only one that notices.”

Na’im stares into his bowl. “Sometimes, I feel like they forget,” he mutters into his stew, and then gathers up a mouthful.

Marwa huffs impatiently. “No one forgets,” she tells him, just to say something.

“You are in a foul mood tonight, Marwa,” Duma bites. His forehead is creased in frustration, that look he gets when he’s had just about enough of her for one day. She forgets sometimes, when she sees him looking at her like that, that they are usually friends.

“I am cold and tired,” she snaps back. “And this conversation is dull.”

“Go to your bed, then.”

“Fine.” She huffs, annoyed because she doesn’t feel like she has won any part of this argument, and scrapes the last morsel of food from the bottom of her bowl. She stands before she’s finished chewing it, unable to stay seated under Duma’s annoyed gaze any longer.

“Safety and peace, Marwa,” he says as she steps away from the table; more to annoy her than anything else, she thinks. She grunts in response, as she walks away, not looking back to see him shaking his head at her, or Na’im drifting off at the table. Maybe tomorrow she will be in the mood, but not tonight, after a long ride in the rain and the Dai scolding her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we love comments around here ;)


	3. home is by the mountain

Marwa sleeps long into the morning, well past the dawn when the other novices are dragged from their beds to run errands or drills or to otherwise serve their masters and mentors. It’s not often that Malik lets them sleep and so she relishes the opportunity, lying there long after she has awoken just watching the dust in the air play in the light that falls in shafts across the ceiling.

The window has been thrown open wide in the bright morning, and the air smells like the rain still, clear and crisp and distinctly earthy. It will be humid and wet outside, no doubt, with such a warm day after a storm, but inside it is pleasantly cool, like the whole castle has been washed and aired in the night.

She dresses slowly once she’s up, in the light robes she would wear during summer. It is refreshing to wear clean and dry clothes; it had rained in Acre for a good three days before the ride back to Masyaf, and she had not spent those days idle. She doesn’t much like winter and it’s cold, wet days, not when compared to the blazing sun and long evenings of the summer. The promise of a sunny day has already put her in a far better mood than she had been in the night before, and she smiles to herself as she goes to the window, to lean out and look over the lake and the village that lies at Masyaf’s feet. From here, she can trace the lines of the village roads to the place where her family’s house stands; the house itself is out of view, but she knows where it stands, nestled against the wall of the mountain.

She should go home today. It has been many days since she has visited, and she has been so far away that she hasn’t even seen her family in passing on the streets. He mother will get impatient if she leaves her waiting any longer; she’s not the sort of woman that will be put off, especially by her own children. Marwa’s brother, Zehad, gets no different treatment, except that he doesn’t ever leave Masyaf and he is the sensible older child, and so he doesn’t ever get on their mother’s bad side. He’s tried many times to explain to Marwa how he is never in trouble, but she just can’t seem to manage it, not even when she tries.

There’s a knock on the door, and with a huff of breath she pushes away from the window and trudges across the room to answer it. Duma is on the other side, clean and well-rested, standing with his arms crossed as he waits for her. “Morning, Marwa,” he says when he is facing her. His cheerful voice is a vast difference from the tired, haughty tone he’d put on last night. He has forgotten their argument, then, she figures, and tries her best to forget it too.

“Good morning, Duma,” she answers. “What do you want?”

“Nothing for you to worry about,” he says. “I just came to tell you, we are to be in the courtyard in an hour. I thought to see you at first meal, but you seem to have slept late.” There’s a sparkle in his eye, a hint of amusement, and she shakes her head.

“Why shouldn’t I?” she challenges. “We rode long and hard yesterday.”

“You have every right.” Duma shrugs. “So long as you do not think it earns you a day off.”

“You speak like the _Dai_.”

He gives her a wry smile. “One hour, Marwa,” he says as he steps away. “Don’t forget.”

“I won’t forget,” she promises him.

He nods. “Come early, and I’m sure Na’im will share his stolen breakfast with you,” he tells her cryptically, and then turns on his heel and walks away, not affording her any opportunity to question him further.

“ _Troublesome boys_ ,” she mutters to herself as she turns back to her room to make sure she has all her things, and to run a comb through her hair. She stands by the window again to braid it into one thick plait that drops across her shoulder, frowning at how coarse it has become over the past few days. Her mother will find time to frown and fuss over it no doubt, like she does everything of Marwa’s. Really, she should just cut her hair short and be done with the trouble of it, but she can’t quite bring herself to do it and then face her mother’s wrath.

Shouts echo from somewhere below, and the clang of steel against steel, and she cannot quite see the courtyard and its practise ring from here but she knows just where it is coming from and what has caused it. She ties off her braid quickly, done with her quiet musings, and leaves the room for the busy castle halls beyond. The quicker she gets through training this morning, the quicker she can escape to the village, and the family she hasn’t seen in weeks.

The boys are already in the courtyard when she emerges, stretched out under the shade of a large oak tree. A plate of food sits between them, covered with a cloth to keep away the flies and dust. Marwa goes straight to them, ignoring the other men around them, and sits herself down next to them without a word.

“I almost thought you hadn’t listened to me,” Duma says in way of greeting, shuffling sideways to allow her a little more shade. He pushes the plate forward. “Here, as promised.”

“Promised?” Na’im sits up a little straighter, reaching for the plate. “That’s mine.”

“I told Marwa you would share,” Duma explains and pulls away the cloth covering it. Marwa snatches up a few pieces of cold meat and half a browning apple before Na’im can hope to stop her. “Won’t you?” Duma asks.

“I suppose,” Na’im sighs and sits back again, hands resting behind him. A short sword sits in the grass next to him, gleaming dully in the sunlight – the skill they are practising today, evidently.

“Where is the Dai?” Marwa asks around her food, eyeing off the other fruits that fill Na’im’s plate.

“Busy,” Duma says. “He is with the Mentor today, so Darim and Sef will be coming too. And I am in charge.”

“You are always in charge,” Marwa grumbles. She doesn’t really mean to complain, but it comes out that way anyway. Duma’s eyes narrow.

“I am the oldest,” he points out. “And the highest ranked.”

“You have one more rank than us,” Marwa argues. “And only because Dai Malik chose you to mentor first. You haven’t even been a novice the longest.”

Duma’s face darkens but he does not argue, because it is true – while Marwa and Na’im have been in Masyaf from a young age, Duma had only come from a farm near Damascus at fourteen years of age, long after most children begin training. At eighteen now, he has worked hard for his rank and has trained and studied long hours to catch up and surpass the younger ones. Duma was fortunate that he was well suited to the life of an assassin, and was physically built to excel at combat; it meant that rather than struggling he flourished, and instead of being ridiculed by the other novices they respected him.

“Do you every stop arguing?” quiet Na’im finally pipes up. He sounds just like the Dai does when he is fed up with their nonsense and it is all the more effective for how little he says otherwise.

“Marwa has nothing else to do with her time,” Duma says, like she is the problem here.

“Maybe if you spent more time being _in charge_ than you do taking swings, and arguing about rubbish, you would be a good leader,” Marwa spits back.

“You are the only one arguing,” he informs her, and then composes himself. “Na’im is right though. We agreed last night, no more fighting.”

“ _I_ never agreed” Marwa says, really just for the sake of arguing than anything else.

Duma shakes his head and looks away, and Marwa throws another piece of fruit in her mouth. They sit in silence for a while, tempers cooling – they get like this sometimes, after being together too much for a few days. After a fortnight in Acre living in each other’s pockets, they are all on edge, even if it is a beautiful morning and they are finally home and well-rested. They just need a few days apart, Marwa thinks as she chews. She knows _she_ does anyway. She’s spent way too much time with these boys recently, and they’re starting to get on her nerves.

Footsteps behind them break the tension, drawing Duma’s eyes upwards and outwards, and blessedly away from Marwa. Darim and Sef stand over them, half in the sun as most of the shade is taken up by the three novices. “Are we late?” Darim asks, speaking mainly to Duma.

“No,” Duma replies, and motions for them to sit. “We are just waiting our turn in the ring, and for Marwa to be done eating.”

Marwa pulls a face at him as the brother’s sit, Darim on Duma’s left and Sef to her right to complete their circle. Darim is dressed down today, she notices – a hidden blade just shows at his wrist, but he has done away with his sword and knives and, like the rest of them, most of the layers an assassin would traditionally wear. It is almost strange to see him dressed like a first-rank novice when he is in the soldier ranks, above even Duma and well and truly on the path to being recognised as Assassin. He is usually dressed like a soldier, in full garb, as is expected of his rank.

Darim is a proper assassin, born and raised for it by his father, the Mentor of Masyaf. He’s tall and broad-shouldered and strong, the spitting image of his father, and he excels as Duma does, only he is Masyaf-born and has been at this his whole _life_. He trains with them often, as much the result of Dai Malik’s careful guidance as the Mentor’s, but Marwa still finds him intimidating sometimes, even just in the way he walks and talks and carries himself. Compared to Darim, she is nothing as a novice, with no chance at more than a few ranks.

His brother is not so intimidating, at least. Sef is the quiet one, the soft one, not so gifted with the natural fortitude to swing a blade and stand his ground when someone swings back. Marwa finds him shy and maybe a little anxious, and hard to talk to (the boys say otherwise, that she is exaggerating, but she always feels like he is a little scared of everything, under the surface). She’s noticed too though, that he is naturally inquisitive. Even when they think he isn’t paying attention, or forget he is there, he is always watching and listening, absorbing everything he hears. She sees him doing it all the time, whenever she breaks from a conversation long enough to glance over at him.

“I was surprised to hear you are back from Acre,” Darim says when they are settled. “When did you return?”

“Yesterday,” Duma answers. “In the evening. That’s why we are only meeting late today.”

Darim nods thoughtfully and glances up in the general direction of the sun. “I did wonder how we had earned a morning off.”

“Malik has not let us rest since he sent you away,” Sef adds, and Darim nods his agreement.

“Now you see what our days are usually like,” Marwa says, because she likes to prod at Darim and Sef on occasion just to see how they will react. Today, Darim grimaces at her words.

“You are welcome to have him back,” he tells her, not insincerely. “Our mother and father are hard, but Malik doesn’t _stop_ – he finds so many hours to spend for us, on and on and on.”

“Acre was no less tiring,” Duma fits in, though he looks just as smug as Marwa feels at having bested Darim in _something_. “He must have sent word to the _rafiq_ , because we were not allowed a moment of rest.”

“We will only rest when we have made the assassin rank and are free of the Dai, I think,” Marwa comments. Duma looks at her and shrugs, unwilling to comment.

Darim looks vaguely amused. “And to think that you all willingly agreed to novice under him,” he says, and now he is the one with a smug smile.

Duma sighs in acceptance, and off to their side, the ring suddenly clears, the novices before them done for now with their practise. “Are we next to spar?” Sef asks, turning to watch the four boys who have just finished. They are all younger novices, just started with wooden practise weapons and still fumbling their way through the most basic forms. Despite not having spent long practising they are all covered in sweat and dust, and promptly throw themselves under a tree like they are exhausted.

“Yes,” Duma answers Sef and stands, dusting himself off and collecting the dulled short blades he has brought for them to practise with. The rest of the group stands with him, Na’im pausing to cover their meal again with a cloth and to move it closer to their tree, out of the way of any feet that might come past. They traipse down to the ring in their own time, following Duma, and each take their weapon, settling in for a long practise.

 

\----- 

 

She leaves the castle in the afternoon, when the crisp chill of the air is beginning to lose it appeal and the sun has tipped across to the western sky. The village is quiet today, the markets mostly closed and the people retreated to their gardens or balconies to relax in the fine weather. She follows a well-beaten path through town, all the way to the other side of Masyaf, where her mother’s house lies nestled amidst several others at the foot of a mountain peak.

Her mother sees her coming through the window and steps out to greet her with a big smile and hands coated in flour. She is baking, evidently. The scent of fresh bread follows her out of the house, as does the delicious smell of some herbal brew and a spiced soup that Marwa is all too familiar with, having grown up with it. Her stomach rumbles at the thought of so much to eat.

Her mother smiles. “ _Abnataya_ ,” she says warmly and envelops Marwa in a hug, her floury hands pressed hard against the girl’s back. The novice finds she doesn’t mind the mess, and hugs her mother tight in return; she is still young after all, despite her guts and show, and so she cannot help but miss her mother. She misses her father too sometimes, the gaping hole he left in their house never quite filled in or built over.

“I swear you grow taller every week you do not see me,” her mother bustles, dusting off her hands. “Just like Zehad. What do they feed you, up in that castle?”

“I haven’t grown at all,” Marwa insists, and her mother scoffs.

“ _Nonsense_ ,” she says, and tows Marwa into the house. “You’ll be as tall as your brother soon.”

“Marwa has many other boys to compete with than a cripple,” her brother interrupts them from the depths of the house, and then appears, shuffling slowly into the room and dropping into a chair. “They favour the tall, strong ones in the brotherhood.”

“Tall and strong like you, Zehad,” their mother insists, and ruffles his hair as she passes.

“If I could walk, perhaps,” he says in faint amusement, and glances at Marwa with a mischievous smile. She shakes her head and sits down too, eyeing the fresh bread that sits on the table.

“You drink these herbs I give you and it will get better,” his mother tells him firmly, leaning over a bubbling pot of something that is perched in a bed of hot coals in the fireplace.

“Yes, _wālidah_ ,” Zehad says patiently to appease her, just like he does every time they have this conversation. He doesn’t really believe it, not since he stopped mourning his freedom after the accident that had cost him his mobility and started studying to be a scholar, but he likes to keep their mother happy, the way Marwa does not. Zehad has learnt not to reach for faraway dreams, but to stay close to home and close to mother, who thinks it is quite delightful to have one child who will not leave Masyaf.

“How was your trip to Acre?” he asks Marwa, before a bitter herbal remedy can be forced down his throat.

“Tiring,” she tells him truthfully, and resists the urge to yawn at the very thought of it. “The _rafiq_ barely let us rest at night, he had so many things for us to do. It has been raining in Acre too, more even than here at Masyaf.”

Zehad grins from ear to ear. “Ah, now you see what being a novice truly is!” he teases lightly. She frowns at him, but tries to take it in good humour. “What tasks did he have for you? Retrieving flags from all corners of the city?”

“Duma says he does this to every novice,” she grumbles. “I suppose it is true.”

Her brother nods. “It is a common trick between all the _rafiqs_ to keep the novices busy.” Zehad would know, of course. He had been a novice himself once, and had climbed several ranks before being crippled. He’d helped her many times over her novice years, but right now it only annoyed her a bit that they’d been subjected to multiple pointless tasks in the rain. One of their flag hunts had even ended with Na’im falling in the harbour, and the three of them subsequently being chased away like a bunch of street urchins, all too many eyes on them as they ran away.

The _rafiq_ had slapped them all upside the head at that story.

“We were sent to investigate Iyad Salib for Tariq’s mission too,” she continues, when she is finished dwelling on it. “The boys are convinced it was part of the testing for our ranks.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Zehad asks. “It has been long enough now that you could carry a weapon. There is only so much training a novice can do.”

“Is there?” Her voice is dry and acerbic. “ _Dai_ Malik seems to find endless exercises for us. I think sometimes he will never be satisfied.”

“Better a hard master than a soft one,” Zehad advises. “A master who lets you advance easily is one that will get you killed when you are not ready.”

“My children talk too much of this nonsense,” their mother grumbles suddenly, and places a piece of flatbread in front of each of them.

“ _Nonsense_?” Marwa repeats. “It is not nonsense, _wālidah._ ”

“Ah, just like your father,” she says without really listening to Marwa. “I should never have let him take you two near that damned castle.” She speaks with humour, but it is bitter – sometimes, Marwa really wonders if their mother still follows the Assassin brotherhood, or if she stays in Masyaf only because it has enraptured her children. “Tell me, Marwa,” she continues, all bluster. “Are you covered in bruises again this time?”

“You shouldn’t ask that of novices, _wālidah_ ,” Zehad advises. “They are always bruised, and they never learn their lesson.” He offers Marwa a mischievous grin, and she reaches across the table and takes a piece of his bread in return, screwing up her nose at him. Her mother raps her hand with a wooden spoon not a moment later, hard and sharp across her knuckles. “See?” Zehad continues amusedly as Marwa curses and drops his bread, rubbing at her hand.

“You learn too many bad habits from all those boys, Marwa Abadi,” her mother tells her, threatening her with the spoon. It is not unlike Malik pointing at her with the wooden practise swords when she has made an obvious mistake, though she’ll never tell the _Dai_ that he reminds her of her mother.

“I don’t learn anything from the boys,” she throws back defiantly. “They are all too stupid to teach anyone anything.”

“You learn to be _rude_ ,” her mother insists. “And careless. Look at your fingers, and those scratches on your arms. And your hair, what have you been doing?”

Suddenly self-conscious, Marwa brushes the loose strands of hair out of her face, trying to trap them behind her ears, and then hides her hands under the table. “I have been _training_ ,” she insists.

“ _Training_? You have been away for weeks.”

“We don’t stop practising while we travel, _wālidah_ ,” Marwa huffs.

“She doesn’t lie.” Zehad finally steps in to save her, and leans over the table to see her arms. “Show me your hands?” he requests in a lower voice. Reluctantly, Marwa takes them out from under the table, and he turns them one way and the other to see the barely healed rips on her palms, and her skun knuckles.

“ _Allah_ , Marwa,” he curses softly, and ignores the way their mother turns to look at him in disapproval. “Did you slip off a cliff or something?”

“A windowsill in Acre,” she admits, and pulls out of his grip. “There was a flag, the boys wouldn’t get it...”

“A windowsill did all of this?” Zehad asks suspiciously.

A pause. “And a tree,” she adds.

Zehad smiles a little. “You did not learn the first time?”

She shakes her head. “It was an accident. At least I didn’t fall in the harbour, like Na’im did.”

“You will be the death of me, Marwa Abadi,” her mother says dramatically, and puts a lid over whatever she is cooking.  “What am I supposed to do when a man comes asking for my daughter? Tell him you are busy falling out of trees and testing the patience of every soldier in the kingdom?”

“Yes,” Marwa throws at her in reply, and doesn’t bother with the look her mother gives her. “No one will ever come asking anyway, so you are worrying for nothing.”

“They will come one day, girl,” her mother assures her, and steps across the room to place a hand on her hair, smoothing it down in the places where the dusty floor of Masyaf’s practise ring has messed it up. “Either from that castle, or from some city far away. You cannot be invisible to every eye in the world.”

“I can try,” Marwa insists stubbornly. Her mother pats her head, and then leaves again, her fingers slipping from her hair.

“You are just lucky I have nothing to gain from marrying you off,” the older woman says as she goes back to her cooking. “I will end up sending them all away for you just to save them from their broken hearts.”


	4. as the sun rises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you have any questions or comments about this fic, or ever just want to chat, you can find me on tumblr as @swiftly-heart ! (I also rp at @revelacions, if that's something you're into).
> 
> please remember to leave a comment, it means the world to me :)

In the cool morning air and the long shadows of dawn, they are set upon Masyaf and told to run.

There are 20 or so of them gathered there, mostly novices but a few children who have no question of where their lives will lead have joined them too, and their task is to run to the gates of Masyaf and back to the castle. The exercise is to build up their strength and fitness, the masters claim when they drag the novices out of bed so early, and to introduce the skills that lead to free-running – once they learn to hurtle at break-neck pace down the winding streets of Masyaf, and to judge and jump from rooftop to rooftop, it is only one step further to ask them to move at speed across buildings, to trust their instincts and their training and throw themselves through the air far above the ground.

 Most take to the winding road that leads down from the castle gates, jostling for space and position in the race, but Marwa has her own way of racing, of learning the free-running the masters want to introduce them to. She always takes a sharp left along the side of the tower, heading for the harder, faster way down where there is a series of ledges straight down to the village. The first one is a long drop but someone has left hay piled at the bottom and so she makes an ungraceful dive into it. It is no leap of faith like the masters would perform, but it is enough to soften the fall. From there it is simple; run, leap, fall, roll, run again, down and down and down until she is standing by the empty merchant’s stands at the bottom of the castle path, two disinterested soldiers staring at her and the rest of the novices just appearing up the hill.

She splits right now, and scrambles up one of the buildings, clinging to the edge of the cliff that lines the lake below. It is a dizzying drop but the roof is wide and steady and a second later she is flying, leaping across to the next roof, and the next, and the next.

This is Marwa’s element. She is too weak for the sword, too hasty for the investigative skills, too outspoken to be awarded a rank and a blade. Her skill lies in free-running – in jumping and climbing and falling but falling _right_ , where most novices would twist an ankle or break an arm. She can scramble up and across the rooftops of Masyaf with an ease not expected of a novice, and not yet even known by most of the novices she is up against this morning. It is a skill that suits her, Malik and the other master assassins watching over her training have remarked many times. Her sharp tongue and impatience often get her into trouble, and her fleet feet carry her out.

She stops at the marketplace and chances a look back. No one has made it quite this far on the ground yet, though some are close, and even fewer on the rooftops – she can see some struggling across the levels of Masyaf but they are unsure in their steps and hesitate before the jump and only look for short leaps and that costs them time.

She’s getting ready to leave, to jump to the last building and then sprint for the gate, when she hears a pair of boots land on the roof behind her. It is Matek, she finds when she turns around; a novice boy who is the same age as her, though he was only brought to Masyaf three years ago, by one of the master assassins. None of the other novices are really sure where he came from – there are rumours he is from Aleppo, or one of the other mountain villages, and some even say he came from across the sea. Only the masters know, but they have yet to share with any novice, and Matek himself is notoriously tight-lipped about his past, for one reason or another. No one would dare ask why.

“So, this is your secret,” he says, spreading his arms wide. “Climbing the roofs rather than running on the ground.”

“What is it to you?” she replies, and shifts closer to the edge of the roof, eyeing her next jump. He is wasting away her lead.

“I just wondered how you always win,” he continues, walking slowly across the roof. “Perhaps you can teach me the way, sometime.”

“Perhaps if you listened to the masters, you would know the way already,” Marwa tells him, and then takes two running steps and leaps across the road, catching the next building with the tips of her fingers and clinging to the ledge with fierce determination. As she hoists herself up, hooking a foot on a window frame to give herself a boost, she hears him land the same jump just beside her, apparently unsatisfied with being left behind. She grits her teeth and pulls herself up, sprints across the roof, and takes a wild leap off the other side. She lands in a roll, grateful that that final building is built long and low and the ground levels out here.

Alone, she sprints down to the gate. Amidst the scattered applause and cheers from the soldiers on duty here, who always find it amusing when the novices come hurdling down the hill of a morning, she brushes her fingers against the wooden beams that hold their first line of defense, and turns to sprint back to the buildings. Matek is only a few steps behind her, and with every metre he grows closer.

Free-running back _up_ Masyaf is a sight harder than going down – whereas the way down is full of sprints and rolls, going up is a lot more climbing. She throws herself into it without hesitation, flying up a ladder, leaping across the road, and climbing the next building faster than she ever has before. The whole way up the mountain she does this, climbing faster and with less handholds than she usually would feel safe doing, desperate to stay in front of Matek. She can’t let him be thought the best climber they have – he has barely been trained to free-run at all, and this is her only natural skill.

She almost loses her footing as she skids to a halt in front of the master assassin that leads this morning’s training, heart pounding and no breath left in her lungs. Her legs are numb and tired and her fingers ache from climbing so fast, from clutching the barest of ledges all the way through the village. Matek is only a few seconds behind her, and just as far out of breath. “Ah, Marwa is back,” the master says in good humour, arms crossed. “Only a step in front today?” I wish I could warn you off becoming lazy, but this is the fastest you’ve ever done it.”

“She free-runs the whole way,” Matek tells him between breaths. “Surely it is cheating.”

The master waves a hand. “It matters not how you complete the exercise, only that you do,” he says dismissively. “The run is to build strength, not to race around the village. If you are unsatisfied, you are welcome to become a novice somewhere else.”

The others are beginning to gather now, still all stuck in a pack like they were in the beginning. Wisely, Matek glances behind him to the six or seven already gathered and then shrugs and lets the topic go rather than pushing the point. The master seems satisfied, and strides away to address each of the others as they arrive.

“Why would you accuse me of cheating?” Marwa asks when they are alone.

“It just seems unfair that you should win every time,” Matek replies.

She gives him a look, trying to figure out if he is just angry, or if he is actually as stupid as he is pretending to be. “When you are fast enough to beat me, you will win,” Marwa says. “If you can’t win fairly you do not deserve to at all.”

“But do you not think someone else should receive the master’s praise once in a while?”

“No?” she says, like he’s stupid. “Tell me, did you let anyone else win while I was away and you could pretend you are the quickest runner here?”

“That was only for a few weeks though,” he argues. “You have been winning for _years_. Is it not time someone else got the chance?”

“This isn’t how competitions work, Matek,” she tries to explain. “Why does it matter anyway? This does not determine whether we are given ranks, or earn any kind of favour with the masters. It is just an exercise.”

He shrugs. “I only want it to be fair for everyone,” he says. “There is very little praise for most of us here.”

“It is likely you have a kinder master than I do,” she points out coarsely, though she knows it is not true. Matek trains under master Abdul Sa’id, the master who takes most of the novices when they first come. He is a hard man, who has trained novices for many years and has difficulty adhering to the new Mentor’s decree for masters to _love the children_. Dai Malik is hard, and expects much, but he is not like Sa’id even if he has a reputation for being far more fearsome.

 

“Why are you talking to Matek?” a quiet voice asks to her left.

She swings around. It is Na’im, of course, it always is. They are the same rank and have the same master, and so they are always together. Usually he doesn’t really bother her, too quiet or lost in his own world to make himself a nuisance. Na’im just _exists_ , he doesn’t stir trouble or make himself heard or compete for attention. She’s fairly sure that he prefers being ignored even when it costs him things, like the rank he has been chasing for four years now.

“I wasn’t talking to Matek,” she replies, sort of annoyed, though mainly at Matek rather than Na’im. “Matek was talking to me. I was trying to make him go away.”

“Oh,” Na’im says, and there’s a lull where Duma might have taken a jab at her if he was here. “What does he want?”

Marwa shrugs. “He thinks it is unfair that I win every race.”

“But you are the fastest,” Na’im says with a frown.

“He says everyone should have a chance at winning, not just the fastest,” she explains. “It is a stupid idea.”

“He is just angry because he was the winner most of the days we were away,” Na’im informs her in an undertone. “He has been telling anyone who will listen that he would be better than you when we returned.”

The other novices start to move towards the castle. “How do you know this?” Marwa asks as they follow, though she’s not surprised really – Na’im always seems to just _know_ things. Him choosing to share is more of a surprise than the things he comes up with.

“I listen,” he replies and says nothing further, because he knows that she already knows. He’s so quiet that people just forget he is there are speak of all sorts of things in his presence. Especially the novices, who are hard-headed and think they know everything and easily forget to make sure they converse out of earshot of anyone else.

“What do the others say about him now that he is wrong?” Marwa presses, purely out of curiousity.

Na’im glances up towards the other novices, but they are all far enough ahead that they won’t be listening and are engrossed in their own conversations anyway. “They laugh at him,” he says when he is satisfied. “They didn’t believe him anyway. You know how it is.” And she does know Matek’s reputation; it is hard to miss the whispers and rumours and tasteless jokes that circulate between the novices whenever Matek does something to draw too much attention to himself. He’s the outcast of the group, more so than even Marwa is, and of his own volition. They don’t question him or the masters, but none of the novices are really sure why he is at Masyaf or what makes him continue as a novice each passing day when he seems to detest hard work and question everything they do. Lazy and doubtful are not the best traits for an assassin novice to possess, and nothing will ever be handed to him as easily as he wishes it would be.

It has something to do with his past, Marwa thinks. She has discussed it with Duma and some of the other boys in the past, and they have come to the conclusion that Matek must have been an orphan on the streets of some city before Masyaf found him. An orphan who has seen some horrible things, they think, because he’s a bit strange and the strange ones are always the one who have lived through past horrors. Like Qadir, who saw through the occupation of his small village by sea raiders and leftover Crusaders. He never speaks of his horrors, like Matek doesn’t, but they echo in his eyes sometimes when it starts to get late in the evening, and he often cries out in his sleep, plagued by all kinds of nightmares.

She’s never heard rumours of Matek having nightmares, something the boys he shares a room with would surely have complained about, but all the other signs are there. She almost feels sorry for him sometimes, except that then he says something like the things he said today, and all she can think about is how frustratingly _dense_ he can be.

“Do you know there is a traitor in Masyaf?” Na’im says now, in an even lower voice, snapping her out of her reverie.

“There’s a _what_?” she replies, almost convinced she’s misheard him.

“There is a rumour, that a traitor is in Masyaf,” Na’im repeats. “The novices don’t know, but I have heard the masters talking about it a lot.”

“It is just talk though,” she says, after she’s taken a moment to digest this news. “Nothing has been proven.”

Na’im shrugs. “There is talk of Templars in the mountains that can’t be found. They’ve been spotted in the Cradle, and down by the river village several days ago.”

“Still, it would be strange to find any kind of spy now,” she insists. “There aren’t even new novices around, and the traders have all left for the winter. Who would it be?”

“I don’t know, Marwa.” Na’im sounds frustrated. “I only say what I hear. The Dai would know – you should ask him.”

“Ask what?” a voice says behind them unexpectedly.

They both jump in surprise, and turn to find Farid and his lackeys walking behind them, apparently out of more interesting things to do. Marwa is the first to react. “None of your business,” she tells them with a scowl.

“Assassin business is everyone’s business,” Farid says, and his friends nod in agreement. “What do you have to be so secretive about?”

Marwa glances at Na’im, but his mouth is clamped shut as always. He’s not very good at people. “Novices don’t need to know all of the things that happen at Masyaf,” she tells Farid, when it is clear there will be no help forthcoming from her friend. “If you want to know, you should ask your master.”

“Novices?” He _laughs_ , and holds up his left hand, which is currently in bandages. “I am one rank above you now.”

“Ask the Mentor then,” she snaps dryly, her voice dripping with sarcasm. Inwardly, she wonders why he had thought his single rank would give him any kind of power over them.

“ _Funny_ ,” Farid says bitterly, and his eyes narrow like he’s thinking of something nasty.

Marwa only rolls her eyes at him, not intimidated in the slightest. “Go away, Farid,” she tells him in no uncertain terms.

He considers it, his gaze turning from her to Na’im, a finger tapping his chin. “No matter then,” he decides all at once, and when he looks back at her he has something of a smile on his face, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I will just have to ask your friend later. I’m sure he will tell me, when you aren’t here getting in the way.”

“Why would I tell you anything?” Na’im pipes up, but it is meek and Farid is not put off.

Marwa can see where this is heading, what Farid is thinking. There is three of him, and one of Na’im and while Farid is an idiot, he is canny enough to corner Na’im where the masters won’t see and scare whatever he likes out of the boy. “Leave Na’im alone,” she says and scowls, thinking of all the ways she could _really_ get the message across if they weren’t in the middle of the courtyard.

“Or _what_?” Farid challenges. He is bigger than her, taller and heavier, and he towers over her with a nasty smile that is almost intimidating. She is like a bird in comparison, all bones and feathers and a few sharp claws.

Nevertheless, she takes a step forward, and looks him dead in the eye. “Or I will break your nose and string you up in the gardens like so many rabbits.”

Farid laughs, but he steps backwards, away from her fists, and his friends retreat too. “Maybe next time, girl,” he says and sneers, and then finally leaves, his friends trailing along behind him.

“Thank you, Marwa,” Na’im says at her elbow, and she glances at him.

“We should go,” is all she says in response. “The Dai will be waiting.” She sets off without a further word, or thought to Farid’s threats, and leaves Na’im to follow in her wake.


	5. the rain that falls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI APPARENTLY WE DO BI-WEEKLY UPDATES NOW.
> 
> I just really wanted to post this. also we're starting to get into the researchy part of this fic so pleaaaaase forgive me/send me info on things I get wrong? you wouldn't believe how hard it is to find information on life in syria during/post crusades that isn't from the standpoint of the british.
> 
> anyway. enjoy.

“Have you seen the scrolls on Abdul Azeem’s account of the Siege of Damascus?”

Duma’s voice floats from the shelves behind them, along with the rustling of paper as he looks through the stacks of books and scrolls housed there. Two chairs down from where Marwa is sitting, Na’im stands and leans across the table, and then shoves the scroll in question down to her.

“It is right here,” she calls back for Na’im, picking it up off of her own reading and placing it on top of Duma’s abandoned books on the other side of the table. She glances down towards the Dai, seated at the far end of the table where he can keep an eye on them without actually being bothered by them. He hasn’t even lifted his head from the map he is carefully detailing.

The rain has returned today, just as torrential as it was the week they returned from Acre, and so they are in the library, which is both a blessing and a curse. Most novices will be out in the bad weather practising their skills, but the Day has resigned them to the warm, dry stacks of books inside, and hours upon hours of laborious reading. Of the three, only Duma likes reading, or finds it easy – Na’im learnt to read and write late, and so finds it difficult still, and Marwa has always lacked the patience for suck a sedentary task, especially when she could be out running and climbing and fighting.

Novices are required to learn history as part of their studies though, particularly the history of the brotherhood but also of the kingdom and the known world. The Mentor increases the list of subjects they should familiarise themselves with every year, as Masyaf acquires more books and more knowledge, and so it is not unusual for them or any novice to spend time in the library. It is unusual to spend the whole day there though, and no time outside with a weapon, and that makes Marwa especially loathsome of today’s learning.

Duma returns promptly, sliding carefully into his seat so as not to disturb the table or the Dai at his precise work. They have spilled the inkpot or bumped his hand more than once in the past, and it always ends in additional chores for the culprit (or all of them, if they have been especially rowdy that day).

“Where was this?” Duma asks as he unfurls the scroll he’s been so desperate to find.

“With Na’im,” Marwa replies, and gestures towards Na’im’s mess. It covers the table in front of him, and leaves the two of them only limited space for their own readings – he is like this every time, and so neither Marwa or Duma will sit across from him anymore.

Na’im looks up at the mention of his name, forehead still creased from squinting at the words in his book. “It is not mine,” he informs them. “You brought it here.”

“How would you know, with all that mess?” Duma asks. “What are you even reading about?”

“The Egyptian assassins,” Na’im says. “Their history is hard to find.”

“Clearly,” Duma comments, and eyes Na’im’s spread of books and half-opened scrolls.

“Novices,” the Dai says in a warning voice, and the boy’s mouths snap shut. His eyes still don’t leave his work, though his pen has stilled.

There must be something troubling him, Marwa thinks as the boys return to their work. The Dai is a talented mapmaker, but it is not a skill he often uses as an advisor to the Mentor, running Masyaf as he does. She’s noticed that he only really bothers with this kind of work when there is something for him to worry over – the more intricate the map, the worse the news. She can’t properly see what he is doing today from where she is sitting, but she’s fairly sure it is a detailed account of a city somewhere, building by building. She doesn’t want to think about what that might mean.

The Dai sighs and looks up, setting his pen down for a moment. “What are you staring for, Marwa?” he asks, and she wonders how he had even known her eyes were following his hand rather than the lines of her book.

“Nothing, Dai,” she hurries to assure him, and pretends to return to her reading. She doesn’t see his eyes narrow in suspicion, but she can feel him watching her. “These books are very valuable, you know,” he says finally, with no real intention that she can tell. “And rare, just as the skill to read them is. You are lucky to be allowed access to them.”

Marwa raises her face again cautiously. “We rarely pay for the books, Dai,” she says slowly, aware she is poking a bear that might snap at any moment. “They are gifts from travellers, or stolen, or brought from Limassol.”

Dai Malik looks like he isn’t sure whether or not to throw his pen at her. “Don’t be too clever,” he warns her instead, and then adds. “Where did you learn this?”

“My brother is a scholar,” she informs him and gestures towards the other side of the library, where its ghostly caretakers wander to and fro. Zehad will be there somewhere, limping between the stacks, though he usually stays away while she is here studying – if because of distraction or because he is still hurt that he is not the one rising up the ranks, she isn’t sure.

“Ah,” Malik says. “Not so clever then, but well informed.”

“Being well informed is clever.”

He considers this, and then shakes his head in resignation. “Back to work,” he tells her sternly, and turns back to his map.

Marwa turns too, and over the top of his book, Duma gives her a _look_ , like he can’t quite believe her antics. She makes a face in return, uncaring, and stares hard at the words on her page like she is reading.

The Dai is right, she should make the most of this library. It is rare for someone of her age and status to have been taught how to read, and rarer still for a _girl_ – her mother has lived all her like under the wing of the brotherhood, but even she can only read rudimentarily. The boys know the value of this skill, having come from a farm and the streets, where no one reads. Marwa though, is a spoilt Masyaf child, who learned first from her father and then her brother before she even started her lessons as a novice, and sometimes it is easy for her to forget that the ability to read is not so common for others.

She knows this, but still today she cannot concentrate, not while the Dai sits at the head of the table and frowns at a map that might never be used. She can’t shake the feeling that something dark is hanging over the castle, and she’s been thinking about the rumours of traitors that Na’im had mention since he had told her a week ago. At the time, she’d been determined to blow it off, sure in her belief that nothing could ever breach the safety of Masyaf, but she realises now that this is childish, a remnant of her earlier years. She is fifteen now, too old to think of the world in such black and white, too well trained to trust in a place so implicitly.

Just as she shakes away the feeling of trepidation and settles back into her reading, they are disturbed again. Not from within the group this time, but by a younger novice who is white as a sheet and holds a letter in trembling hands. “D-D-Dai,” he stutters and then wavers, like he might just keel over from whatever shock he has been through.

Malik’s head snaps up at the mention of his title. At first, he looks annoyed, some scything comment on the edge of his tongue, but the moment he lays eyes on the boy it fades away and he stands abruptly, his work forgotten.

“What’s happened, novice?” he asks, and guides the boy into the seat opposite Na’im, prying the letter from between his feeble fingers.

“T-they sent me to fetch you,” the novice manages as Malik unfolds the letter. “The Mentor, and the masters. My fa- The master Hassim – he is-“ He sputters and chokes on his own voice, and cannot say any more. The Dai pats him on the shoulder as he reads and turns away, and the boy slumps in his chair.

“I must go,” the Dai says when he is done and folds up the letter, tucking it into the pocket of his _djebella_. He sets about tidying his things, lidding the inkpot and weighing down his map to dry.

Marwa sets down her book. “What has happened?” she dares ask, and ignores the way Duma is staring at her (like she is crazy).

The Dai pauses, and shoots a glance at the shaken novice, still trembling in his seat. “There is to be a funeral,” he says slowly, and then finishes what he is doing. “This afternoon. It cannot wait, so I am told.”

A _funeral_? She sits back and tries to remember the master Hassim. He was a big, hearty sort of man, always with a smile on his face. He travelled often, she thinks, didn’t spend so much time in Masyaf as other assassins did, even though he had a wife. And a son – the boy that had been sent to find them, she realises with a start. Yukub, who isn’t so brave as his father, nor so infatuated with the open road. As her eyes land on him he sniffs and takes a deep, sobbing breath, trying to compose himself, and she suddenly realises what kind of pain he must be in. She has lost a father too once, and though she barely remembers how it felt, there is nothing that completely erases the memory of loss.

“What will we do?” Duma asks, practical as ever.

“Continue your studies,” the Dai instructs. “There are plenty of hours left in the day, and no reason for you to waste them.” He is gone almost immediately, like he was never there at all. Yukub doesn’t even flinch, just stares at the floor lifelessly.

They do their best to return to their reading, for a time, though it is hard to concentrate with Yukub sat there. All three of them keep stealing glances at him, Marwa notices at one point, not that the boy is really paying them any attention. He is looking at a book now, flicking slowly through the pages without really seeing any of the words they hold. She finds herself watching his hands turn them over, slow and methodical, so careful that the paper barely makes a sound.

“We are supposed to study, Marwa,” Duma reminds her, like he is the Dai now that Malik is gone.

“I _cannot_ spend my entire day here,” Marwa grumbles in reply. “I will go mad staring at these books for so long.”

“The Dai says-“

“The Dai isn’t here,” and somewhere in the back of her mind she _knows_ she is being stupid, but she is so restless it doesn’t really register in the moment.

Duma frowns at her. Even Na’im turns to look at her in surprise. “He will still know if you have neglected your duties, Marwa,” Duma says after a moment. “You know he will find out.”

She huffs an unhappy sigh and slumps in her seat, staring at the books in resignation. She’s trying to mentally prepare herself for the reading, to try and get into it so that maybe the time will pass a little quicker, but she just can’t muster up any enthusiasm for the heavy tomes and their monotonous descriptions of events long past.

“What would you do?” Na’im asks quietly, amidst the rustling of paper as he rolls up a scroll.

Marwa turns to watch it twirl over and over between his fingers. “Anything else,” she replies. “Go outside and train with the others, maybe. Master Rauf is there today; he would surely have me.”

“Rauf would tell the Dai,” Duma points out, and he is not wrong – Rauf, the weapons master, is good friends with Malik, and would surely inform him of any wayward novices.

“I would go to the Cradle,” Yukub pipes up, much to their surprise. He wipes his nose on his sleeve.

“To see the funeral?” Marwa asks, and Yukub nods. “They will not let you go?”

“It is bad weather,” he explains. “And I have been ill recently. And they say I am too young. My mother requested I stay.”

“That is not right,” Duma says, listening now. “To bury a father without the son.” Marwa agrees silently; even she had seen her father buried when he died, many and many years ago. She had only been a child, too small to even be a novice, and she had never let go of her mother’s hand. That’s almost all she remembers now. That, and the stone placed at his head to mark his grave, fresh cut and glittering in the afternoon sun.

“We should not leave the castle,” Na’im says slowly, and then all turn to listen. “But you can see into the Cradle from the north side of the keep.”

“So?” Duma replies. “You will not be able to see the funeral. It is too far, and the weather is not right.”

“Even if the Cradle is hidden, they will take the mountain paths to get there,” Na’im insists. “We can see them pass over the bridge, at the least.”

Duma shakes his head. “Even so, we have been told to stay here. We should not disobey the Dai.”

“I would like to go,” Yukub says almost over the top of Duma, like he hasn’t really been listening. He stands, and Na’im stands too, shooting a look at Marwa. She needs no more invitation.

“You will not listen?” Duma asks, and stays in his seat.

Marwa gestures to Yukub. “We cannot let him go alone,” she says and she means it honestly even if she is just using him to get out of reading. “What kind of assassin abandons another in a time of need?”

Duma sighs.

“Will you come?” Na’im asks him hopefully.

“No.” Duma is resolute. “I will do as I have been instructed. You should do the same.”

There’s a moment of silence. Na’im looks at Marwa as if to ask for help, but she has nothing more to offer, and is more than happy to leave Duma to himself here anyway. “Come,” she says instead to the two younger boys and rounds the table, headed for the door. They follow silently in her wake, all too aware of Duma’s eyes fixed on their retreating backs.

It is a fair walk through the winding halls and stairs of Masyaf to the northern side of the castle but they do it in good time, barely speaking as they do. Marwa leads them to a place high in a tower on one corner of the castle walls, which looks down across the lake and into the river. It is a watchtower and so it is cold and draughty, and the brazier is not lit, meaning it is even more so. They do not complain though, just huddle by the window to look out across the mountains.

The Cradle lies before them, separated from the village and the castle by the gorge that holds the river firm. It is a deep valley that cuts through the mountains like a knife wound, filled with verdant trees and lush green that is unusual in this part of the world. No one knows just _why_ it is called the Cradle (it is a local name, adopted when Ḥasan ʿAlā Dhikrihi first formed the stronghold here), but to them it is more of a graveyard than a thing to hold a babe. All the assassins are buried there, so long as their bodies make it home, scattered between the trees and rocks, most of their headstones faded by weather and time.

Sometimes, they can see all the way into the Cradle from here but today, Duma is correct; the rain still falls in sheets, hiding everything past the gorge in a grey mist. They can see the winding mountain path that leads to the Cradle though, roughly cobblestoned by careful hands sometime long ago, and they can see the bridge too. The procession of assassins attending Hassim’s funeral is already making its way up the path, half hidden in the rain. Yukub makes a small sobbing noise as he spots the body they carry between them, carefully wrapped in linen.

“I have never been to a funeral,” Na’im says quite suddenly, just to fill the silence. And no, Marwa supposes he hasn’t, having grown up as an orphan on the streets of Jerusalem. Even after coming to Masyaf, he would have been too young to know anyone to mourn up until this point – when they are about to be given ranks, to be sent out to live or die for real.

“I have been to some,” Yukub replies haltingly. “But not-“ He stops and stares out at his father. The others understand.

“How did he die?” Marwa asks as the people below them get closer. She can pick Malik from the crowd now, by his black Dai _djabella_ – he walks near the back with the Mentor, hoods up and heads bent against the rain.

“H-he was found on a mountain road,” Yukub answers. “Not far past the Cradle. I don’t know what…anything more.”

Na’im grabs Marwa’s arm and pulls her to one side, leaving Yukub alone at the window. “What?” she asks in an undertone, and glances back at the teary-eyed boy.

“The rumours of Templars in the mountains,” he hisses. “Do you remember?”

“Yes?” She’s heard the rumour once or twice more in the week since he’d first told her, though she still hasn’t put much stock in them. “This couldn’t be-”

“An assassin would not be killed by bandits, even if those sorts could wander as far as the Cradle,” Na’im insists. “It is wild country, and it is winter. And why would an assassin even be out there, if not looking for Templars and troublemakers?”

Marwa hesitates, and then glances over to make sure Yukub is still preoccupied. “What if Hassim _is_ the traitor?” she suggests in an even lower voice. Yukub, blessedly, doesn’t hear her.

Na’im is unconvinced. “Hassim has not been here for months, while the rumours have,” he points out. “And a man like that would not do such a thing. There is no reason for it.” Marwa shrugs, and Na’im shakes his head at her. “It is no good to speak ill of the dead,” he adds, just a little superstitiously, and then returns to Yukub and the window. After a moment, Marwa follows.

The procession have made their way steadily up the path in their absence – they are almost at the bridge now. Marwa leans against the side of the window and lets her eyes wander, all along the gorge where water streams in rivulets down into the swirling currents below and then up to the rain soaked mountains. Their rocky peaks are hidden from her in the fog, but she can follow their jagged lines upwards as she knows them by memory, having stared at them since she was a little girl.

Yukub has eyes only for the men below them, in comparison. Na’im watches Yukub, just in case the boy decides to do anything reckless, or break down completely.

“It is going to be a long winter, isn’t it?” Marwa asks suddenly. “Long, and cold.” She isn’t just talking about the weather. That feeling of danger still hangs over her head like a dark cloud that chases her around. Surely the boys feel it too now, watching the other assassins go out to bury a dead man.

“I think so,” Na’im replies quietly. Yukub doesn’t say anything, but a tear tracks down his cheek and drips off his chin. He doesn’t really seem to notice.

“Are you alright, Yukub?” Marwa asks kindly.

He sniffs and wipes away the tear. “He was always home during winter,” he says. “But now we will be alone, and he will not leave in the spring, and next winter he will not come back, and-” He chokes and stops to force a shuddering breath into his lungs.

Na’im takes his hand, and throws Marwa a look. “The loss fades,” she offers, as gently as she can. “In time. Next winter, it will not be so bad.”

“Next winter is so far away,” Yukub says. “And I have a whole winter ahead _now_.”

“But we are all waiting for it to pass too,” Marwa points out. “That’s the point of a brotherhood; of brothers.”

“Everything passes,” Na’im adds quietly, and squeezes the boy’s hand in comfort. Yukub forces a nod.

There is a minute where they fall silent. They watch the procession cross the bridge, filing across two abreast as the bridge allows no wider. On the other side they disappear into the rain, headed down into the Cradle.

“ _Allāhu akbar_ ,” Yukub murmurs as the last assassin disappears, a common verse of prayer said at funerals.

“ _Allāhu akbar_ ,” Na’im replies, and then softer, like a promise, “He will lie at peace in the Cradle.”

“I hope you are right,” Yukub replies. For a while they just stand, the three of them, and watch the rain fall.


	6. blind faith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feedback is very much appreciated! :)

They stand in the tower, a cluster of seven novices, and stare out at the dizzying drop that lies before them.

They are not the first to face it, and they will not be the last. They are simply todays chosen novices, the ones who have best learnt to fall in the recent weeks. The ones that might be ready to wield a blade and run through a city and take a life.

“Who will jump first?” the master, Amon, asks of them.

The group falls still, looking to one another. Marwa steps forward.

She has never been one for wasting time cowering over something that must be done. And it is important that she does not show fear, so that these boys around her don’t start to think they can call her weak for being a girl.

“I will jump,” she says, and she is careful to omit any doubt from her voice.

Amon is no more immune to the follies of men than the novices. “What is this?” he says in glee. “The girl will step up before any of you spineless boys?”

“She is the bravest of us all.” To her surprise, it is Na’im who speaks first, who steps to her side. She has always thought him quiet and unconfrontational, and thought that perhaps he doesn’t like her. “I will jump also, if it will please you.”

Amon eyes them, one to the other. “Malik’s students,” he says in interest. “He will be pleased to know you have both proved yourselves brave.” He steps aside and motions to the platforms they will jump from.

There are three to choose from. Marwa takes the jump directly in front of her, the centremost platform, and Na’im goes to the right. The wood creaks under their feet, and a bracing wind shoves at them, pulling strands of her dark hair from her braid to tease her with. She stifles the uneasy lurch of her stomach at the sight of the drop. It is not natural for a person to stand over the abyss and think of jumping. And over the abyss they stand, just a jutting outcrop of rock decorated with piles of hay to catch them before they fall into a deep valley and the river far below.

She can see everything from here. There is the sky, stretching from below her feet to far above her head, impossible and unending. There is the river glimmering far away from them, the cliffs that surround it, and the mountains beyond. To her right is Na’im, toes on the edge of his own abyss, and beyond him the village of Masyaf. The hay she’s supposed to land in is a speck below her in comparison to the rest of the world.

“Whenever you’re ready, novices,” Amon says behind them. She shoots a glance at Na’im, and sees the fear in his eyes. Her gaze snaps back down towards the ground. It is a simple task really, one she has practised over and over again. There are far more common ways for a novice to die than a leap of faith.

In the end, it is a simple matter of closing her eyes, spreading her arms, and falling into nothing.

Gravity catches her immediately, digging its claws into her skin and dragging her down towards the rocks below. Her eyes fly open again and out of instinct rather than skill, she angles herself towards the landing spot. It has been drummed into her for years, this skill, and this is the furthest she has ever fallen, the most faith she has ever given to Masyaf and the ground it stands on. And it is a _long_ fall – it is only a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity, with the wind rushing past and the feeling of being tied to nothing but the air.

And then she reaches the ground and the hay envelops her, and she lies safe in its dark, warm arms. A moment after her own haystack settles she hears Na’im disturb his own, obviously having jumped just after her. She takes a breath and pulls herself out of the hay and onto her feet, craning her neck to look up at the tower as she brushes hay from her clothes. Amon looks down at her from the far platform. He nods in satisfaction when he sees Na’im climb from the hay behind her and then disappears, presumably to get the next jumpers.

Marwa shuffles over the wall and leans against it, hiding in the shade of the platform she has just jumped from. Na’im joins her a moment later.

“You are very brave,” he says to break the silence that settles between them. “I hadn’t realised before.”

Marwa shrugs, and kicks at the grass at their feet with the toe of her boot. “It is like the Dai always says,” she replies. “I must be brave, or people like him-” she gestures upwards, towards Amon, “-will think I am weak, just for being a girl.”

“I think a girl would make a better assassin than any man,” he says slowly. “You are much better at hiding in the crowds, and getting close without raising alarm. They always expect a man to come and kill them. They never expect a girl.”

Two more novices come falling from the tower, dropping into the hay in front of them, and Na’im shuts his mouth with a snap, apparently unwilling to say anything more in front of the others. Marwa eyes him for a moment – she has never heard so many words come out of his mouth before, and especially not on this topic, which is one he hears often during conversations with the Dai.

The others climb out of the hay, and of course it is Matek and his friend, whose name she does not know, who have taken the leap second. “You have beaten me again,” he says as he walks over to join them, a smile on his face. “I wonder sometimes if I will ever beat you.”

“Your chances look slim,” she says dryly. “Perhaps when you stop comparing yourself to others, you will have better luck.”

“Ah, but where is the fun in that? Especially against you, Marwa. I have never met a girl who competes against the boys before.”

“None of this is supposed to be a competition, Matek,” she reminds him haughtily. “Or has your master not taught you the creed yet?”

Matek shakes his head. “I didn’t mean it like that; although you must agree that being a novice is much like a game, until you earn yourself a blade.”

She sees his lackey nod, and glances at Na’im to see if he agrees as well. The other boy just shrugs, unwilling to get involved. “It is not a game to me,” she says finally.

“Maybe it should be,” Matek suggests. “Then you would learn to relax, maybe.”

“We are novices,” Marwa says in annoyance. “We are not supposed to relax.”

Two more boys come tumbling from the sky and into the hay, and so she doesn’t even listen to Matek’s response. One of them is Sef, she sees as he climbs from the haystack and slips into the shade with them. She hasn’t even had a chance to greet him this morning, compared to the amount of time she’s spent talking to Matek. She doesn’t like that.

“How was it?” she hears Sef ask Na’im around the sound of Matek. She sees Na’im shrug and gesture upwards, but she doesn’t hear a word he’s saying, much to her annoyance.

“Safety and peace,” she says to Matek in a short, clipped voice that does nothing to make it sound like she actually wishes him either safety or peace. His mouth snaps shut suddenly, like he hadn’t been expecting her to speak over the top of him, and she uses his surprise to shoulder past him and seek shelter with Na’im and Sef.

“-he is jealous, because-” Na’im is saying when she joins them. He stops abruptly when he sees her, and quickly changes track. “Hello, Marwa.”

“What are you talking about?” she asks, curious, and looks from one to the other.

“Just Matek,” Sef answers. “And the leap of faith. Do you think we have passed?”

Marwa frowns and glances over her shoulder at Matek, who now lounges against the wall of the tower and watches the rest of them silently, but she does not push the subject. “Who knows what the masters will decide,” she says finally, turning back around and resolving to ignore him.

“But what do _you_ think?” Na’im presses desperately.

He has been waiting for this moment for a long few years now, she recalls. It is no wonder he is eager to know how they have performed. “I think we have trained enough,” she replies slowly. “And we have not shown fear, or fallen on the rocks. They cannot ask much more.”

“I pray you are right,” Na’im mumbles, and kicks at a tuft of grass. “What if they are not even considering giving us new ranks?”

Marwa huffs in mild annoyance. “All of our training the last few weeks has been the tests given for the novice ranks. They would not send us to Acre, or bring us to the leap of faith if they weren’t considering it.”

“You are making _me_ worry now,” Sef says. “I haven’t been sent to anywhere or tested on anything. Except for the leap of faith, today.”

Marwa blows him off. “Your father is the Mentor,” she points out. “You don’t need to be tested.”

He frowns. “I’m not cheating my way to a rank,” he tells her, a little perturbed. “And besides, my father is not like that. He would sooner not give me a rank than give out one that is undeserved.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she replies. “I only mean, he will know if you are ready, won’t he? Like how Darim got his ranks.”

Sef doesn’t answer, but stares at the mountains for a minute while he mulls it over. Behind Marwa, the last two novices take the leap and land safely, dropping quietly into the hay. One comes out covered head to toe in golden stalks – the other boys take him cheerfully into their ranks, one ruffling his hair and causing it all to shower down around him. She turns to watch as he squirms and tries to brush the rest of the hay off, his friends more a hindrance than a help. It is amusing to watch.

Amon jumps now, and climbs to his feet with a grace that none of the novices can hope to possess. Not a single piece of hay clings to him, somehow, an impressive feat in itself. The boys fall suddenly silent when they realise he is there, standing over them, and turn as one to face him.

“Very good,” he says, when he has all of their attention. It doesn’t not sound particularly like praise. “You are all free to go.” He pauses, and then gestures towards the river, and the long, narrow beams that have been placed across its width. “You know the way.”

He steps aside. The boys do not move, rooted to the spot by surprise, and fear. None of them have ever been permitted to do this without the guidance of the masters before – not from this height, not over the river. “You wish us to go alone?” one boy asks hesitantly. In the corner of her eye, Marwa sees Matek sneer at the question.

“You want to be assassins,” Amon replies. “You need to do this alone. If you have learnt anything in your time as a novice, you will not fall.”

A hand curls around Marwa’s elbow. “Come on,” Na’im whispers, suddenly right beside her, and glances back at Sef. He drags Marwa forward a few steps and then lets her go, trusting her to follow on her own.

“You two again,” Amon remarks as they step up to the beam, Na’im first. It creaks as he puts his foot on it, and Marwa hears Sef’s breathing stop abruptly behind her. The others watch on, none of them rushing to join them. “These others should be ashamed of themselves.” He shoots at glance at the other boys, who all suddenly look very uncomfortable. But still, none of them move, unwilling to cross until Na’im has flown or fallen.

None, except Matek.

“I will go as well,” he says boldly, straight to Amon, and steps up behind Sef. Na’im glances back at him, then at Marwa, who offers him only shared irritation, and then he sets off across the beam, crouched low and moving with short, carefully measured strides, just as they have been taught. Marwa does not hesitate to follow, and neither does Sef; suddenly they are all together, strung out across the beam and hovering far, far above the swirling waters of the river. Marwa makes the mistake of glancing down at it, and forces a deep breath in and out of her lungs. She is not scared of heights, and she cannot begin being scared now.

It is windy out here, just as it was on the platforms high above them. Marwa fights the urge to turn and look back up at the tower; instead she focuses on her balance, on not falling this way or that. Na’im’s eyes are fixed straight ahead, and the further he goes, the more confidence he seems to gain. She lets him pull ahead, not so eager to throw caution to the wind. She can hear Sef several strides behind her, but whether or not he is struggling, she cannot tell. She hopes he is not.

A few more steps, and then she is on the other side and safe, and she can turn back and watch Sef and Matek join them too, and the other boys start the long walk across the beam from the other side of the river. To her left, Na’im takes two long strides and propels himself up the ledge that leads to the next beam – there are three in all, looping around over the fork in the river that lies here to the outer siege tower. There’s a bridge too, just a short climb away, but the bridge is not the point of the exercise and none of them would dare use it, not after the leap of faith.

As she’s about to take the running leap up the ledge and follow Na’im, Matek shoulders past her, shoving her into the rocky mountain wall that rises up on the opposite side from the river to hem them in. “I will go first,” he insists in way of apology, and bounds up the wall without much of a run-up at all, which would be impressive if he hadn’t been so rude. She wants to say something, but he is gone before she even gets the chance, hot on Na’im’s heels.

“There was no need for him to do that,” Sef says as she rights herself, brushing the dirt off her sleeve. “What does he think will come of being so rude?”

“He is obsessed with winning and nothing else, I think,” Marwa grumbles in reply, and then runs and plants a foot against the rocky ledge wall, pushing herself upwards so that she can grab the ledge and haul herself up. She gets a foot over the edge and springs up, not even breaking a sweat at the easy climb.

The next beam is right at her feet now. Matek and Na’im are already halfway across the short distance, Matek in front now. At least he hadn’t pushed Na’im off the cliff in his hurry to be first. “Ready?” Sef says at her elbow, and with that she puts Matek away for a moment and focuses on her feet, crouching low as she crawls out along the beam. It’s easier the second time, over the shorter distance, and easier again on the third beam, and then suddenly she is at the bottom of the siege tower, the river and the other boys all behind her.

Na’im is waiting for her, and she glances at him, a question in her eyes. “I did not want to climb with him,” he says and points upwards. Matek is on the wall, a third of the way up – he’s having trouble figuring out how to jump to a narrow window, she assumes from the way he is shifting to and fro on his current ledge, trying to find an angle.

“I don’t like that he is going to be the first to finish the climb,” Sef remarks as he reaches them, somewhere behind her. Marwa’s eyes are firmly fixed on the wall climb now.

“He will not be the first to finish,” she decides abruptly, her eyes exploring the features of the wall. It’s a climb _made_ for assassins, challenging only for a first-rank novice or someone badly trained. She’s never had the opportunity to climb it before, but she can already see her path up, _and_ the mistake that Matek is making. She will not make the same mistake.

A second passes, longer than any minute, and then she starts to climb. Up and up and up, past the boy’s heads, and then the first window, and then to the long ledge Matek is currently holding onto, still trying to figure out the angle he needs for the window that is tantalisingly out of his reach. He yells something to her, something that sounds vaguely threatening, but she ignores him and slides across to the left corner of the wall, where it meets the cliff face. A ledge has been cut into the mountain rock just to solve this problem, and she finds a foothold on a rock that juts out of the cliff and pushes herself upward to grab it, just the edge of her fingers holding fast to the rock. Before she can slip, she twists and jumps back across to the wall and the window Matek can’t reach, smiling a little to herself at his sputtering below her.

The rest of the climb is easy, for her. Up, and across, and jump from one beam to another, and climb again, and then she is at the top of the siege tower, looking down on Matek. He is climbing furiously after her, and he wears the face of a man angry enough to murder someone, but Na’im is right behind him and so she doesn’t feel afraid, only smug, that even when he plays dirty, Matek cannot beat her.

Just as she thinks it, he looks up, and meets her eyes. She smiles and waves, and then disappears into the tower.

 

ooooo

 

Sef leaves them, after the leap of faith and the trek back home, summoned to his own studies somewhere else in the castle. Na’im and Marwa go to the Dai, as they do most afternoons.

“Ah, the novices, finally.” Malik stands off to one side in the castle courtyard with Duma, and they peel off to greet him. “Where have you been this morning?”

“Free-running, and to the leap of faith,” Na’im says, and leans against the wall. Truly, he is exhausted. “Marwa has been showing off.”

“Showing off?” the Dai repeats, as Marwa elbows Na’im hard in the ribs.

“Against Matek,” he says despite the jab, rubbing his side.

“I was not _showing off_ ,” Marwa hurries to correct him. “He follows me around, wants to beat me at everything.”

“Perhaps he likes you,” Duma says dryly, and she scowls at him.

“And why don’t you ignore him, like all the rest?” Malik interjects, before she can go after Duma as well.

“He is persistent,” she tells him. “Believes everything is a game to be won, like a child.”

“And what do you believe?”

“That the creed is not a game. It is a life, and a duty.”

His eyes appraise her critically. “I admire your commitment,” he tells her finally. “Just beware of your blind obedience.” He makes to turn away.

Before he can, Marwa screws up her nose in confusion. “You have always said to follow the creed, no matter the mission,” she says, in a way that demands an answer.

Malik stops and sighs, and then turns to the other novices. “Duma, Na’im, the swords please. We will practise in the garden, away from these crowds.” The boys leave and now only Marwa remains, waiting for her explanation.

“You are a loyal student, Marwa,” he says as they walk to the garden. “For all your failings. You will make a good assassin.”

“But you would tell me to throw away the creed at my own discretion?”

“Not throw it away, no. These are good words to live by, wise rules to kill with. I only warn against blind faith, following without a single question or doubt. This is how good men are used to do terrible things. It is always good to have a little doubt.”

“But the Mentor wouldn’t-“ She stops short, because yes, the mentor _would_ use them all for his own purpose; or at least, the last one had. She was not yet born when it happened, the fight over the Apple of Eden, the day the new Mentor killed the old one, but she has heard the stories, and she has seen the echoes of horror in the older assassin’s eyes when they hear mention of those days. She has seen the artefact too, just once, peeking out of a drawer in the Mentor’s office one summer day when she was very young. She was not meant to see it, and in all her time here since, it has been hidden away, but she knows that it is real, and that the stories of what Al Mualim had done with it are real too.

Malik shakes his head. “I do not believe that the current Mentor would betray the brotherhood, but you cannot deny it has happened before, and will happen again.” She shuts her mouth and nods in understanding, and he looks satisfied with what he has taught her.

“I will make you wise yet, girl,” he says as they step through the door into the gardens.

“I am already smart,” she tells him, a little miffed that he wouldn’t think otherwise.

“Yes, but being clever and being wise are not the same thing. You will learn, in time.” She huffs a sigh and he laughs softly, and then the boys catch up with them and they are busied with the task of finding a quiet corner in which to square off against one another.

Despite his missing arm, Malik is a formidable swordsman, swift and effortless especially against the far less skilled novices. He is a fine teacher too, and it shows in his novice’s progression and easy proficiency with the weapon. Marwa is vaguely aware that they are a rank or two ahead of all the others simply because of the master who chose to teach them; even if she rarely trains with the other novices (other than the odd one or two Malik invites over to test them). She won’t complain either way. Every new thing she learns is a step closer to a new rank, and she has found she likes sword fighting. She’s good at it, now that she has grown strong enough to wield it properly. Her natural aptitude for running and climbing makes her light on her feet and wily, and Malik has taught her to use this to her advantage, to dance back and forth and turn her opponent’s strength against them. She is still overpowered by Duma, who is tall and strong, but she can hold her own against Na’im and Sef and many of the other novices; and she will get better, with time.

They practise for a long time, for most of the afternoon, until the sun is about to fall behind the castle walls and the warmth of the day is just starting to fade from the air, giving way to the cold chill of night and the promise of winter it brings. There will not be many more sunny days now; the first snowfall is a promise in the air, and in the dark clouds that gather far off in the west over the sea.

“You have done well today, novices,” Malik says to them as they leave, a rare compliment. Marwa smiles to herself as she departs the gardens, out where the Dai cannot see; it has been a good day today.

She can only hope the days to come are just as bright.


	7. hunter and prey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry for the long absence! working 13 days a fortnight plus moving house means no spare time ever...and suddenly it's been like, a month? and I haven't updated, even though this has technically been pretty much done since before I moved lol. anyway, hopefully more regular updates again now. hopefully.

Malik sends her early one morning to prepare a horse for him.

It is warm and cosy in the stables, surrounded by hay and blankets and lanterns that have been lit to provide light in the early morning. Off to one side, in the stone shelter set aside for a blacksmith’s forge, a stable boy is stoking a fire in the forge. The flames crackle cheerfully in their bed of wood and old coals, still warm from yesterday’s fire. The other boys ghost about here and there, arms full of hay and oats, or lugging pails of water to each stall. The horses are quiet for the most part, chewing happily on their morning meal.

Malik’s horse stands in a stall somewhere near the middle of the barn, one leg rested as he works at a mouthful of hay. He is a big, sturdy creature, with a coat as black as the night sky and a kind eye to him. The stable boys have left a lantern outside his stall for her, and all the things she will need – a boy of brushes and a good saddle. A bridle hangs to the left, freshly cleaned and oiled – the brass ornamentation of the browband gleams darkly in the light of the lantern, the bit shining silver.

She picks up the brushes first, and sets her lantern high on a ledge where it will cast enough light into the stall for her to see what she is doing. The horse snorts softly as she enters, and she offers him a hand in greeting, scratching at the itchy spot under his forelock once he is sure that she is no danger to him. She makes short but thorough work of his coat, brushing off the straw and dust he has managed to accumulate since yesterday and restoring his coat to a soft, gleaming black. He barely moves, happy enough to be fussed over so early in the morning and otherwise entertained by the armload of hay someone has given him.

She’s just picking the last few pieces of straw out of his tail when she notices the other novice, tiptoeing past with a saddle in his arms. She might have assumed he was just another stable boy, except that the saddle is twice his size, and he is creeping around like someone who is up to something they shouldn’t be. And then she realises that it is Yukub, the boy who had lost his father recently – and no, there is _definitely_ no reason for him to be in the stables before dawn, saddling a horse.

Moving silently, Marwa puts down her brush and leaves Malik’s horse a moment, following Yukub. He goes right to the end of the barn, lugging the heavy saddle with him, to a small bay mare that is often used to teach the novices to ride. Now, she is sure he couldn’t be here saddling a horse for any master. No one would ask for one of the older, slow novice horses, not when there are proper warhorses to choose from who are young and fresh. It’s not even a matter of pride – an assassin needs a good horse, who is capable of making a long journey or climbing the mountain passes, or outrunning the Saracens and any other trouble they might run into. This mare is old and carries old injuries, and has not been out of Masyaf for a long time now.

Yukub is so caught up in his own thoughts, and whatever he is up to, he doesn’t even notice her lean up against the door of the stall. “What are you doing?” she asks suspiciously. He jumps in surprise and almost falls over as he turns to face her, with eyes like a startled rabbit. The mare doesn’t even flinch, half asleep where she stands.

“M-Marwa?” he sputters in surprise. “Where did you-”

“Over there.” She points down the long row of stalls. “It is a little early for riding lessons, isn’t it?”

He hesitates to answer, and then he gets this cagey look on his face as he turns back to his horse. “I have business,” he informs her, deliberately cryptic, and then grunts as he hauls his saddle up onto his horse’s back.

“What kind of business?” she prompts, because there is no way he isn’t up to something.

“It isn’t any of your business,” he tells her. It would be frigid and snappy, but his voice shakes when he says it, and his shoulders hunch like he is expecting backlash.

He ducks around to the other side of the horse to escape, and she slides along the front of the stall to follow him. “You are being very strange this morning, Yukub.”

“It is very early,” he replies, and fiddles with his girth. “And I would rather be alone. Please.”

“Not until you tell me what you are up to.” Marwa is firm.

“I am preparing a horse for Master Sa’id,” Yukub tries.

“No,” she says immediately. “The master would never ask for a home like this one. You know that.” Yukub crumples, his face falling. “Only a novice would ride a horse like this.”

“Fine,” he huffs, and circles back around to the other side. Marwa follows again, relentless in her pursuit. “It is my horse. I want to practise my riding, before the morning training begins.”

He is still acting suspicious, she thinks, like he is hiding something still. Yukub is not a very good liar yet; it is a skill many novices struggle with until they are a little bit older. The concept of lying, and lying convincingly, can be a tricky one for the younger novices – as can knowing when to lie, and when to admit the truth.

Also, she knows one important fact about Yukub. “Aren’t you the best rider of your age?” she asks.

“No,” he claims, and only fumbles at the buckles of the girth for a second.

“Oh,” she says, and makes a show of acting confused. “But you know, I have seen you ride. You need no practise.”

“Do you not have your own things to do?” Yukub asks her.

“Only a horse to saddle for the Dai.” She shrugs.

“What if the Dai comes early?”

“Then he will have to wait for his horse.” Yukub stops for a minute to think about that, looking at her like he is not really sure if she’s being serious or not. Marwa waits as long as she can, until he turns back to his saddle without a word, and then she huffs a sigh.

“Fine,” she says pettily, and turns away, stomping back down the row of stalls to her own horse. She’s not satisfied, and she saddles him in stormy silence, mulling on the mystery of Yukub.

He’s up to _something_ , she knows it. There’s no way he isn’t, not so soon after his father has died, and not with the way he has been walking around the castle since then, with a face made of stone and legs that look like they might fall out from under him at any moment. She’s determined to find out too, even if she has to exercise patience for a few minutes to wheedle it out of him.

She finishes saddling before him, and then she waits, leaning against the wall and watching the horse lip up mouthfuls of fresh oats around the bit in his mouth. Yukub only takes a few minutes longer than her, and then he walks past with his horse in tow, eyes darting from side to side and looking especially shady.

” _Come on_ ,” she whispers to her own horse and ducks under his neck, tugging him towards the stall’s open door. He follows willingly, shoes clicking on the cobblestones as they follow Yukub through the barn and out the door, into the cold, dark courtyard outside. The boy is tugging at the packing under his saddle when she joins him outside, desperately trying to pull it forward from where it has slipped back too because he has rushed to saddle the horse.

“Why won’t you tell me where you’re going?” Marwa asks behind him, even though it is clear he is purposefully ignoring her. He gives the blankets one last tug that almost knocks his horse off balance, and then makes a noise of frustration and whips around to face her.

“I am going to find the Templars!” he bursts out and then withdraws just as suddenly, as if he is shocked that he has gotten so angry.

“The _what_?” Marwa stares at him like he’s crazy. “There are no Templars near Masyaf, Yukub.”

“Yes there are,” he insists angrily. “In the mountains. They have killed my father, so I will kill them.” He sounds so sure of himself, it scares her a little.

“ _You_ will kill them?” she repeats, like it might make sense if she hears it again. “With what weapons? You are a novice, not permitted to carry even a knife.”

He glares at her, and then reluctantly pulls his sleeve up to reveal a hidden blade he has clearly stolen. “I have this,” he says. “And I have a sword.”

She eyes the blade and the five fingers of his hand, perfectly whole. “You will rip your fingers apart, using that,” she tells him bluntly. “Do you even know how to use it?”

“I know just as much as you do.” It is not much of a rebuke, she thinks wryly as he spits it at her, face red and frustrated. After all, she is not the one with the blade strapped to her arm. “It is not hard,” he insists. “And my fathers have been assassins for generations. They will guide me.”

“You are a fool,” she tells him, aghast at his disregard for everything his novice years should have taught him. “The dead can’t lead you anywhere but where they have already gone. To _death_.”

Yukub’s face darkens, and his fist clenches. For a minute she thinks he will trigger the hidden blade and take off his fingers right here and now, but he doesn’t quite; just glares at her, like he could strike her down with just a look. “And you are ignorant!” he replies. “Our enemies are right here, and they are killed us. But you do not care, because you have no father for them to kill!”

“Because they already killed him!” she shoots back, loud enough to wake the whole stables.

Yukub flushes at the sudden volume of her voice, and she forces herself to stop and take a breath. “It does no good to go after them,” she says, when she has composed herself. “Not as a novice. You will only come off worse.”

She can remember, vividly, the weeks surrounding her father’s death – not the actual event, or the man himself, but the things that came after him, _because_ of him. It was stifling hot at that time of year, and her mother had sat for long hours in the cool of the house and done nothing. And Zehad had been sad, and he had been distant, and one night he had disappeared and in the morning…

She remembers the blood, the shaft of the arrow in his leg. The feathers had been long and soft and splattered in blood, and it had only been worse when they took the arrow out and threw it on the kitchen floor. He’d been ashen grey for weeks, feverish and only half lucid. They had thought he would die. And then, he had taking his first limping steps into the library, and never come back.

Yukub is staring at her. “You shouldn’t go into the mountains,” she tells him finally. “There are other things to die for.”

Something in his face changes, and he curls a hand in the mane of his horse to help his shaking legs support him. “I just want to avenge him,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. “It is my right. It is my duty.”

“No.” Her voice is firm. “It is an _assassin’s_ duty. You are a novice.” It occurs to her suddenly that she is speaking like Duma. She’s not sure that it suits her – but she will not let Yukub storm off into the mountains alone to die.

His whole body slumps in defeat. “So they will walk free, even though they have killed one of our own.”

“The other master assassins will find your father’s killers,” Marwa tells him. “They search the mountains daily now. There are only so many places to hide.”

“And what if they find nothing?”

“Then nothing is found. But you are still alive to see another winter.” She pauses. “I think you doubt too much though. They are not master assassins because they excel in losing Templars.”

“I only doubt because of how long it has taken already,” Yukub says, though he hangs his head and mumbles into his shirt as if he is ashamed of himself. “I would gladly die to take revenge for my father. The masters would not.”

“Would your father want you to die for him?” Marwa asks, and huffs out an annoyed breath into the darkness, her patience running thin. A cold breeze springs up as she speaks, and sends leaves skittering across the courtyard. Her horse snorts at the shadowy shapes that tumble past his feet, hard to distinguish in the pale light of dawn, and she turns to quiet him, laying a calming hand on his neck.

“I don’t know what he would have wanted,” Yukub replies as the horse settles. “Only what is right to honour his death.”

“I think you’re wrong,” Marwa tells him, and runs a hand down her horse’s neck. “And I think you know that, even if you want to ignore it.”

He stares at her defiantly. “And what would you say my father wants?”

Marwa rolls her eyes towards the heavens and wonders to herself why boys are so stupid. “I think he would want you to live,” she answers. “To train and become an assassin like him. To continue your family line. That is why he made you a novice years ago, isn’t it?”

There is a long silence in which Yukub doesn’t say anything. He is frozen, thinking about it, realising that she is exactly right and he has been very wrong. She waits expectantly, turning her eyes towards the path to the castle in search of the Dai until he is ready.

Eventually, he shuffles his feet and lets out a long, defeated sigh. “I suppose,” he says sullenly, and then, “How do you know this?”

Marwa shrugs. “It is how fathers are,” she tells him. “Especially the assassins. They want to be remembered. It is a great thing to be descended from other assassins. To have and pass on a heritage.”

Another long silence. “I have been stupid,” he admits eventually, in a moment of realisation.

“Yes,” Marwa agrees, and tries her best not to sound smug about it. He kicks at the ground and then starts to loosen his girth. His mare takes it all in her stride, without so much as a flick of the tail.

“No one will think you any less brave,” she offers as he fixes his saddle, like he has just ridden in. The words do nothing to smooth the lines on his face.

“I will,” he says, and he is sure and unyielding on this point. He looks up the castle path. “Your master is coming,” he points out, and she swings around to see the light of the Dai’s lantern bobbing along the path towards them, altogether too close.

“You should put your horse away,” she advises, Yukub’s problems suddenly far from her mind. “Before he gets here.” If the boy is here, the Dai will have questions, and she doesn’t have the energy to bother answering them – or to watch Yukub go through the sort of interrogation the Dai will put him through.

“Oh,” Yukub says, mostly to himself, and fumbles with his reins. “Thankyou, Marwa.” His voice is so soft she almost doesn’t hear him, already busy checking everything on Malik’s horse is just so – but she pauses long enough to look over her shoulder and offer him a small smile in return.

“Safety and peace, Yukub,” she murmurs to the morning air, hoping the familiar farewell will comfort him.

“Safety and peace,” he mumbles back, and tugs his horse off in the direction of the barn. The mare follows without a fuss, apparently unconcerned by being brought out to stand in the courtyard while the sun rises only to go straight back home again.

She is only alone for a few minutes before the Dai arrives – just as she is yawning into the sleeve of her tunic, of course. “Is it too early for you, Marwa?” he asks as he joins her, and sets the lantern on the ground so he can run a hand down his horse’s face in greeting.

“No, Dai,” she replies and straightens, blinking away any sign of fatigue.

He hums and circles around her to check his saddle. “I should think not, seeing as novice training starts at first light.” He pauses and peers up at the sky, where the first few streaks of colour are reaching across the grey horizon. “To which, it seems, you are late.”

“You instructed me to watch over the horse until you arrived,” she points out. “I cannot do both at once.”

He thinks on it a moment, and then acquiesces. “I suppose, just this once, you are correct,” he allows. “It is lucky then that I have already told Raul you will be late, isn’t it?”

He is in such a good mood that she smiles in spite of herself. “Thankyou, Dai,” she says, and he hums again and goes back to his saddle, fiddling a little with the girth.

When he is satisfied, his eyes trail over towards the soft light that spills from the barn doors, and the sound of the stable boys going about their morning chores. “Who was the boy that waited with you?” he asks, and she stifles a burst of surprise – of course he had seen Yukub; Malik would never be known to have missed a trick, especially not where his novices are involved.

“One of the stable boys,” she says, nonchalant.

Malik reaches out, swift as an arrow, and tugs hard on the end of her braid. “Don’t lie to me,” he tells her sternly.

“It was Yukub!” she yelps immediately, and pulls her hair from his grip. “he wants to ride out into the mountains alone. I told him not to.”

“And why would Yukub be riding out so far?” Malik holds his hand out for the reins and she hands them over.

“He thinks there are Templars in the Cradle,” she explains. “He wants to kill them, as revenge for his father’s murder.”

Malik hums to himself, and throws the reins over his horse’s head. “Interesting,” is all he says though.

The way he says it doesn’t sit right with her, and neither does his reaction; it is unlike him to be so calm, to not curse the stupidity of novices or even at least roll his eyes. “Dai?” Marwa asks as he swings up and onto his horse with an ease one would not expect from a man who is missing an arm.

He pauses. “What is it, Marwa?”

“ _Are_ there Templars in the mountains?”

Malik frowns, and for a moment she thinks she is definitely in trouble for asking such a question. “I think you already know the answer to this,” he tells her instead, and turns to look at the mountains like their enemies are visible from here.

She purses her lips unhappily. “I have heard the rumours,” she says. “But rumours are not always true.”

“And you think I will give you the truth?”

She swallows hard and ducks her head in deference. “I thought only to ask, just in case.”

“Hm.” He huffs a breath of mist into the cold air, and gathers his reins. “I have only rumours too, Marwa,” he informs her. “We are all looking for answers. And this is no business for novices to be involved in.”

“Of course, Dai,” she says and steps away from the horse. He nods in satisfaction and finally sets off, without so much as a look back.

Marwa sighs into the cold dawn and looks up towards the mountains. Nothing moves up there except the trees, stirring in the morning breeze. They will keep their secrets, for today anyway. And she will go find Yukub, and hurry off to her own battles, before the sword master decides she is _too_ late.


	8. the testing

At the height of the day, they find themselves climbing the stairs to the Mentor’s chambers, following the snap of Malik’s black Dai robes. Na’im and Marwa walk silently side by side, neither brave enough to look at the other, or to ask the master why they are going to see the Mentor.

“A moment of your time, Mentor,” Malik says as they reach the top of the stairs. The Mentor doesn’t hear, too engrossed in the strange golden artefact he constantly seems to be carrying with him. It has always made Marwa’s stomach turns, that thing, even though she knows all but nothing of it, but the Mentor has no such qualms. He sits motionless in his seat and stares into its depths like he sees something more than gold and strange inscriptions within.

Malik steps closer, and motions behind him for the novices to wait by the stairs. “Altaïr?” he calls, louder this time. The Mentor blinks and stirs, and finally sets down the artefact.

“Malik,” he says when he has suitably gathered himself. “I did not think to see you today.”

“I said I would be by some time, if I made my decision early enough,” the Day replies. “Though I had hoped to find your eyes somewhere other than that wretched thing.”

Altaïr opens his mouth to answer, and then thinks better of it as his eyes slide over to the novices. “You have something to tell me?” he guesses and stands, stretching out stiff joints. He has been sat here a long while, though he had not meant to be.

Malik beckons the novices forward. “Yes. I wish to make these two Initiates. They are ready.”

Marwa’s eyes widen in surprise, and beside her, she hears Na’im take a sharp breath inward. Apparently, he knew no more than she did that this would happen.

The Mentor’s eyes sweep over each of them, judging them carefully. “I am supposed to see them training,” he says finally, to Malik. “I have not been to see the novices in some time, I’ve been so-”

“Busy?” Malik scoffs. “I’d tell you to take a novice or two of your own to remind you, but I fear they would not learn much.”

“I hope you aren’t teaching your novices to speak to their elders with such disrespect.”

“You have many greater things to worry about than the manners of my novices.”

“Unfortunately, this is true,” Altaïr concedes in good humour.

“So then, you will permit them to move up the ranks?” Malik asks again.

“I must see them fight and climb first,” Altaïr repeats, looking faintly annoyed. “Though I have no doubt of their abilities, the rules demand it. I cannot be seen giving special treatment to anyone.”

“Since when have you followed the rules?”

“It is something new I’m trying.”

“Very well,” Malik says. “They will be made available whenever you wish to test them. Unless you would like to join us now for a little swordplay?”

Altaïr pauses and throws a glance down at the artefact, considering. “I have done what work I can here,” he decided finally, and stows the Apple away out of sight. “I will come out for a time. Then at least you won’t be bothering me about your novices for the next week.”

“Your generosity is outstanding, _Mentor_ ,” Malik replies, and bows in a way that is more mocking than respectful. “Come along, novices.”

They go down to the main courtyard of the castle, to the ring where day and night Assassins of all ranks practise their skill with the weapons of their craft. It is occupied when they arrive by two boys who could not be more than a rank or two above novice (not that it mattered; until the fourth rank, everyone is called a novice just the same), practising with their short blades. At a word from the Mentor, they left the ring and slumped down in the shade of a nearby tree to watch.

Malik pushes the novices towards the centre of the ring and throws each of them a wooden sword (novices of the first rank are not permitted steel). They both catch them in one hand; Marwa’s firmly within her grasp, and Na’im’s at the very edge of his fingers for a split second, before he adjusts his grip and holds the weapon steadily.

“Slowly, first,” Malik calls to them, settling against the rail next to the Mentor. “Run through the drills.”

They do as they are told, standing face to face and running through several sets of the most basic sword manoeuvres there are. Their swords knock against each other in a pattern Marwa knows better than any song. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see the Mentor watching them while he talks to Malik, one eye always on them. She doesn’t like being watched and judged like this, though she does not complain. She is used to Malik’s piercing eye catching everything she does wrong anyway, and his sharp tongue, which has fallen blessedly quiet today.

Duma arrives as they run through the last drill they know, leaping up to sit on the side of the ring behind Na’im. He affords Marwa a smile when her eyes flick to him between swings, but she doesn’t have time to return it.

“Very good,” Malik says when they stop to rest, the drills done. “Though Marwa continues to suffer from a wandering eye. You will lose your head with a habit like that.”

She shakes her head. “If the drills were different, I would need to pay attention,” she says. “But they are always the same.”

“You are _supposed_ to know them by heart,” Malik tells her. “They are the basics of your skill with a sword. But that still does not mean you may perform then without the proper care. Discipline is just as important.”

“My eye will not wander again,” she insists.

Malik waves a hand. “Begin then,” he says, though he doesn’t look satisfied. “Show me what I have managed to beat into your thick skulls.” His last comment is a little harsh on Na’im, Marwa thinks idly as she takes up a defensive stance. The boy has never been hard headed or especially stupid, just quiet, which is not a terrible thing for an Assassin to be It is not very fair to faithful and obedient Duma either, though he is sometimes _too_ obedient for Malik’s liking. Mostly, she is the one with a thick skull and an inconsistent aptitude for learning, and she knows it.

Na’im swings first, pulling her from her thoughts as she raises her wooden sword to parry. The resounding contact rattles her whole arm, but she doesn’t give up the fight and soon enough his sword slides away and the fight continues.

Sparring with Na’im is like falling into a familiar dance; they have done this so many times that they know each other’s habits and proficiency by heart, and as such are locked in combat for a long time. Marwa tires quickly of this. Both Na’im and Duma outweigh her in both physical strength and natural ability, and though Malik has promised she will grow stronger the more she trains and the older she gets, she cannot stand against the boys for long right now, not when they are so equally trained.

Her fighting style, in the absence of strength, lies in her quick feet and agile movements, letting her skip all around the ring until she can find the opening she needs. It is a smart way for a growing girl whose strength belies her to fight, but also easily tiring. She must learn to take down her opponent quickly, a feat she cannot pull off today against Na’im.

And then, just as expected, there she goes, flat on her back with Na’im’s sword at her throat, blunt end poking into her skin. He lets her up after a few seconds, turning to speak to the master as she sits up and tries to catch her breath.

“Well, there is no doubt you have trained them well,” the Mentor says somewhere behind her. “But this is no test to them, not when they know each other so well.”

Malik waves a hand. “Test them in whatever way you wish, then,” he replies, and the Mentor strides forward to pick up Marwa’s dropped weapon.

“To the side,” he instructs as he passes her, rapping her on the shoulder with the hard, wooden blade. She scrambles to her feet and retreats, leaving Na’im at his mercy.

The Mentor does not go easy, not that she was expecting him to. His movements are fast and fluid, and his strikes accurate and deadly. More than once, he backs off moments before Na’im falls to the cobblestones or drops his sword, or somehow otherwise puts himself at the end of Altaïr’s blade.

Duma circles the ring to join her and Malik, leaning over the rain on the other side of the Dai. “I didn’t know the Mentor would spar with novices,” he says, more out of interest than any kind of jealously (Duma wasn’t capable of jealousy).

“He should,” Malik replies. “A mentor is a teacher, not just a leader. Today, he is deciding if Na’im and Marwa are worthy of a second rank.”

“Oh,” Duma says with some surprise, just as Altaïr calls an end to Na’im’s torture, letting the poor boy rest and catch his breath.

“You are satisfied?” Malik asks as they return to the small group and Na’im slumps to the ground.

“He fights well, for a novice,” the Mentor replies, and then adds as an afterthought, “As do all your novices, Malik.”

The Dai affords him an amused smile and kicks Na’im’s sword towards Marwa. “Don’t let your focus wander,” he warns as she picks it up. “If anyone will accidentally stab you with a piece of wood, it will be Altaïr.”

“Do you doubt me, Malik?” Altaïr throws at him before she can reply.

Malik laughs. “Very often, my friend.” The Mentor frowns a little, but tightens his grip on the short wooden blade in his hand and stalks back to the centre of the ring, Marwa trailing in his wake.

It is uncharacteristic of her to trail behind she realises as she does so, and immediately straightens and grips her sword with more purpose. She’s learnt now to be sure in everything she does, so that no one can question her bravery or commitment to the creed, or her place in the brotherhood, and she will not let the _Mentor_ of all people doubt her.

He does not question her though, just turns his thoughtful gaze to her stance and her grip and then steps forward and swings, beginning the spar. They dance back and forth, strike to parry to strike again, and Marwa can feel he is going easy on her. This does not rest easy with her, so she pushes harder, faster, with skills she has barely learnt yet, until finally he grows tired of her games and knocks her flat on her back again with a simple flick of his wrist that sends the wooden sword right into her stomach and drives all the air from her lungs.

“You suffer from impatience,” he says over her as she struggles to pull another breath into her lungs. He looks no more inclined to help her than she would be to accept help. “Do not pick fights you cannot win.”

“Some good advice for yourself, don’t you think?” Malik says as he strides across the ring, Na’im just a step behind him. Marwa coughs in a breath and rolls over on all fours to struggle up onto her feet.

“We all have our weaknesses,” is the Mentor’s measured response. “They fight adequately enough for novices. If they can climb as well as they handle a blade, I see no reason to deny them a second rank.”

Malik looks pleased. “When Marwa has recovered, I’m sure she will be eager to show you her talent for it.”

“Talent? Such high praise from you, Malik.”

“I do not praise her for much else, I’m afraid.” There is a wicked gleam to Malik’s eyes, and a hint of humour. Marwa does not take offense, just picks herself up and dusts herself off.

“I am ready,” she proclaims boldly, but if the masters are surprised, they do not show it.

“Rest a moment,” Malik orders without missing a beat. Her expression turns sour, but she obeys the Dai and rests, collapsing onto the ground next to the boys.

“You fought well,” Na’im says quietly to her as the master’s step away, falling deep into their own conversation. “They will give you a rank for sure.”

“You fight better than you think, brother,” Duma puts in before Marwa can speak. He leans around Marwa to clap the other boy on the back. “You will climb better than you think too.”

“You are as worthy as I am,” Marwa add, only a little annoyed at Duma for cutting across her. Na’im flushes red under their combined praises and ducks his head.

“You will both be given ranks,” Duma decides, and he sounds confident. “The Dai has made sure to prepare you well, and the report from our time in Acre was very good.”

“Was it?” Marwa asks in surprise. She hadn’t even realised the rafiq had written to Malik, or that they’d so impressed him.

“You don’t know?” Duma questions in response.

“The Dai has never mentioned it,” she explains impatiently.

“You must ask if you want to know of it,” Duma chides her. “The Dai will not always bite, Marwa, only when you do things wrong.”

“You are not perfect, Duma,” she reminds him snappily. “And I am not scared of the Dai.”

Duma is unperturbed. “I have never claimed to be perfect,” he tells her, as calm as the lake on a windless day. “And I know you better than to ever call you scared.”

“You respect the Dai, Marwa,” Na’im interrupts, his voice softer than theirs. “You cannot admit it yet, that’s all.”

Marwa stares at him in wonder, surprised at the words coming from his mouth. “Novices!” Malik calls before she can say anything, and they snap to attention, scrambling to their feet.

“You must be well rested,” Malik says as he approaches. “If you have the breath to talk so much. Your next test will begin now.”

There’s a moment of expectant silence, in which neither novice says anything, and then an elbow digs into Marwa’s ribs. “What would you have us do?” she asks, and makes a mental note to get Duma back later.

Dai Malik turns to the Mentor, who places a finger on his chin thoughtfully. “Fancy a chase around the village, Malik?” he asks.

The Dai snorts in derision. “Not in the slightest,” he replies. “But if you’d like to spend your time playing with the novices, you may do so. I’m sure your skills are getting rusty, with all the time you spend indoors.”

“Hm.” The Mentor eyes them, and then the walls of the castle. “Fine, then. The test is set.” He gestures to the fortress walls, and the village that lies beyond them, turning to address the novices. “You will try to escape Masyaf,” he instructs them. “And I will try to stop you. Make it through the village gates and you are safe.”

Na’im takes a deep breath, in and out, and Marwa glances at him. He is nervous, though he is careful not to let it show, scared that he might fail the very last test set for him after waiting so long for a rank. Marwa finds she is only excited to show her skill, and the test it – the master assassins do not often free-run with them. Once they have taught a novice the fundamentals, they only set the place and exercises to develop these skills and then let the novices learn for themselves, because they must fall and fly and learn to be fearless of their own volition, not anyone else’s.

“Two against one,” Malik observes, and puts his hand on Duma’s shoulder. “Take Duma with you, Altaïr. I can’t promise he’ll be of any use, but he will even out the numbers. Perhaps he will even learn something.”

“Fine,” Altaïr agrees, and beckons for the boy to join him. His eyes turn back to the novices. “You have one minute,” he tells them. “You must not be noticed, by assassins or otherwise, and you may not use the castle gates.” He inclines his head towards the gatehouse, which is bustling with people going about their business. It would be a bad choice of path anyway, it is congested so – they will need to move fast, and they are supposed to remain unseen, and they will undoubtedly run into someone trying to squeeze through there. Marwa has her escape route picked out already anyway, away from the crowds and the distractions. She has climbed these walls enough to know the way out when she needs it.

“Go,” the Mentor says, and she needs no more encouragement. Na’im doesn’t move for a second, but she is already gone, swinging over the fence of the sparring arena and sprinting over the place where the wall of the castle meets a turret, forming a wedge-shaped corner with plenty of hand- and foot-holds. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Na’im split in the opposite direction, towards the ladder by the gatehouse that leads up onto the battlements. It is a good, easy path to take, and will give him more time to put some distance between himself and the Mentor, but they are supposed to stay out of sight too and that part of the wall hosts twice as many guards as her sheltered corner, which he doesn’t seem to have considered.

Marwa scales the wall easily, clinging to the warm stone like a limpet to a rock in a storm. At the top, she stops and just peeks over the edge, looking for the guards – one is up the far end of the wall, his back to her as he looks out over Masyaf and the surrounding mountains, and the other has just gone into the shade of the tower room, the door left ajar behind him. With a small grunt of effort, she hoists herself up over the wall and takes the sprint across the top, fast and quiet, disappearing down the other side just as the guard turns around.

The climb down is just as fast and only a little unnerving – the stone is old and worn smooth, and several times her fingers feel like they’re going to slip right off and sacrifice her to the long drop below her. Once she’s low enough, and sick of feeling like she’s going to fall, she just gives up and let’s go, landing in a rough roll that takes the wind out of her.

Na’im is already gone by the time she’s reached the ground, courtesy of some handy scaffolding left against the wall of the castle right where he’d ascended and descended. She follows his coattails down the hill, on a rough path adjacent to the main thoroughfare, and reaches the bottom just in time to see him disappear into the crowded upper marketplace, one grey robe in a sea of Masyaf’s residents. When she looks up the hill, she can see the Mentor, already giving chase. A thrill of fear runs through her at the sight of her pursuer, irrational as it is, and she knows that now, the game is on. She will not be caught.

Marwa skirts around the marketplace, unwilling to tangle with the slow, busy crowds. Using the roof of a market stall, she leaps and climbs her way up into the flat mud roof of a house and follows the street as it curves down the mountain, hopping from roof to roof. At the end of the street, she stops and crouches in the shade of a rooftop garden to evaluate her options.

A sheer cliff lies to her left, the mountain peak that protects that side of the village. Before her is the impossible width of the wide main road of Masyaf, too wide to jump across from here and blocking her path to the lower market and the gates. To the right is a manageable jump, but she will have to backtrack and use the beam an assassin has fixed to a building behind her to do it. And her pursuer is-

_Right there?_

Yes.

Her breath catches in her throat as she spots him, standing high and proud several houses back. It is the Mentor, of course; it is just her luck that Duma wouldn’t be the one chasing her. His eyes are fixed on the garden she is hidden in. He knows she’s there, there is no doubt in her mind. He wouldn’t miss such an easy hiding spot.

She will have to use the beam, and then free-run across Masyaf, the skill he is here to judge anyway. Her heart hammers in her chest at the thought of being chased across the roofs, the possibility of falling today of all days, when it is so important to keep her feet under her. She must be sure and steady, must show she is capable of fleeing from bigger threats than another assassin. She must fly.

Marwa stops, shoves a deep breath of air into her lungs, and leaps out of the garden, dashing for the beam.

He sees her immediately, of course, and he moves to catch her, but he lets her reach her target, lets her take the long leap across the street and catch the edge of the rooftop on the other side, pulling herself up with just the strength of her shoulders. He follows as she flees, dancing light-footed up roofs, over side streets and balconies and lattices. She faces another wide street and must detour from her path to find a place to leap, and he cuts a corner to close the gap between them. His fingers snap closed around open air as she leaps and flies and lands, only inches from capture. She keeps running.

It becomes exhilarating then, as she angles downhill, towards the entrance to Masyaf. Now that she has begun, she doesn’t even need to think about it – her feet guide themselves, her hands grab and grip and haul her up and down without prompting. Her fingers ache from the work but it is a good ache, the sort that means she is moving fast and jumping well, that she will not falter and fall. At a point, she faces a sudden absence of rooftop and a path of three upright poles to leap across. She doesn’t even hesitate, just jumps, pushing off each in turn and landing safely on the other side. When she finally pauses to glance behind her, the Mentor is gone.

She loses speed then, and hops gracefully down the last few rooftops at her own speed before dropping into a quiet corner of the lower market. It is easy to disappear into the crowd and follow their currents to and fro, always working her way towards the village entrance. She thinks she might make it, for a minute, and then she spots a grey figure standing motionless under a tree in the centre of the markets and realises that Duma’s eyes are staring right at her. Getting past will not be easy; all her plans disappear immediately at the sight of him. She fades away into the crowd and beats a hasty retreat, back to the edge of the marketplace.

There’s another tree here, grown to lend shade to the yard of a house, where two children sit playing in the dust. Marwa is swift to scale it, and gets herself high enough to hide in its branches and dappled shade when she looks out of the market. From here, she can see Duma clearly, and the Mentor, who is now beside him. Na’im sits in the dirt at their feet, looking defeated.

As she watches, the Mentor converses with Duma and then strides away into the market. It is remarkable how quickly she loses sight of him in the crowd, despite his tell-tale assassin’s robes; one minute, he is there, and then she blinks and he is gone. She jumps out of the tree, landing softly in the dirt, and slips down a side street that is narrow and dark.

The street leads her to a dead end, and she finds she will have to climb up two storeys to escape it. She’s not even halfway up when a hand wraps around her ankle and she remembers suddenly that she’s forgotten to check if anyone was following her up the street before she climbed.

The Mentor pulls her off the wall, and doesn’t bother trying to break her fall, letting her tumble ungracefully into the dirt at his feet. “You have a disturbing talent for finding every dead end in Masyaf,” he says as she rolls over and picks herself up, rubbing at the shoulder she’d landed on.

“But you didn’t catch me,” she says in response, with a little too much cheek.

“Only because I let you get away novice,” he tells her and turns her towards the mouth of the alley, giving her a shove of encouragement. She walks reluctantly, back to the boys under their tree.

“Shall we find your master?” the Mentor asks when he has gathered them all, and they nod and follow him dutifully. Suddenly, the people seem to notice him, and they part like water as he passes, never daring to impede his path. It is so effortless, Marwa notes with interest, how easily he moves from an unnoticed face in a crowd to the Mentor of Masyaf, their renowned leader.

“Tell me, novices,” he says once they have walked a while in companionable silence. “I am curious. Do you ever regret joining our brotherhood?” The question is to all of them but his eyes turn only to Marwa, just for a moment.

Duma answers first. “No,” he says, swift and decisive. “I came here to learn to fight, to take my revenge on the people who have wronged me, and I have found a greater cause. There is nothing else now.”

He nudges Na’im, and the smaller boy jumps and gathers his thoughts, realising suddenly that he will have to answer. “I wonder…sometimes,” he speaks hesitantly. His voice is small and barely cuts across the noise of the crowd around them, but the Mentor is listening. “What I might have been. But I came from the streets, with nothing, and no one, so then…”

“A home and a craft is more than you would have ever had?” the Mentor finishes for him and Na’im nods, relieved. “And you, girl?”

Marwa lifts her chin. “I came to the brotherhood to honour my father. I do not regret it.”

“Ah.” The noise is long and soft, thoughtful. They pass by the cypress tree in silence, slipping through the crowd that has gathered to listen to the town crier. He’s shouting something about Crusaders and bandits and danger in the mountains, but Marwa doesn’t quite hear him as they approach, and just as she starts to listen, she is distracted again by the Mentor.

“I remember you,” he says to her quite suddenly, drawing her attention. “You came as just a small girl, with your brother. He lives still, does he not?”

“He is a scholar, in Masyaf’s libraries,” she answers. “He was crippled as a novice, so I am an assassin for him too.”

“A brave girl,” he remarks, though he is not impressed nor disdainful as most others are, just decidedly neutral, his thoughts hidden behind a blank mask. He falls back into silence, this time satisfied with their answers, and the novices don’t dare speak as they follow, not through the village nor up the winding mountain path to the castle gates.

Malik waits for them in the courtyard, under the shade of a far-reaching tree. As they approach he rises gracefully, and tucks the book he has been reading into an unseen pocket within the folds of his clothing.  “They will do,” the Mentor tells him as they approach, and Malik nods in satisfaction. “Though the girl has some hard lessons to learn yet.”

“I will be sure to beat them into her before I bring her to you again,” Malik says lightly, and casts a glance at Marwa. Her eyes slide to the ground and she kicks at a tuft of grass in embarrassment. Na’im nudges her with his elbow and offers her the shadow of a grin, like a secret passed between them. She can’t help the smile that grows on her own face in return, so strong she struggles to keep it in check. They have passed! The elation in his eyes is catching, passing between them with just a look and suddenly she cannot be ashamed or embarrassed – she is a novice, a proper one, with a rank and an oath and (soon) a blade of her own. They cannot tell her she isn’t an assassin now!

Dai Malik is still watching them, of course. For a second Marwa thinks she sees him smiling at them too, but it disappears before she can even turn and look properly, and she passes it off as just her imagination. “You are dismissed, novices,” he tells them instead, as curt as ever. They nod as one and escape, walking as swiftly as they are allowed away from their masters and into the freedom of the castle to celebrate.

Today has brought them good fortune, Marwa thinks as they walk. She wonders what tomorrow will bring, or the days to come – if the weather will hold, or if the storm that has been brewing at the edge of their world will finally come to meet them.


	9. commitment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well this is...somethin.
> 
> I apologise in advance for this extremely shaky chapter, in which not much of importance really actually happens but enough that I decided to keep it anyway. it was supposed to be longer. I sorta dropped the ball there.
> 
> anyway. leave a comment? <3

They stand at the top of the tower where they’d first taken a proper leap of faith, side by side.

The fire has been stoked, and the knives sharpened. They were not here at the time, but anyone could hear the scrape of a whetstone against a blade just a little while ago. Marwa is nervous, as is Na’im at her side, but she does not show it, lest they find some reason to spare her. This is the final step to being a member of the brotherhood without question, the smallest sacrifice she will have to make in her life here.

“Who will be first?” the man in charge of the knife asks. He is not one for pomp and ceremony, which is only to be expected from the man chosen to play butcher to every novice that advances during his tenure as a master assassin.

“I will,” Marwa says, before Na’im can even open his mouth. The man looks slightly impressed.

“A brave girl,” he says and beckons her forward. “Your hand, then.” She offers it to him, and lets him arrange her fingers how he likes on the edge of the table.

It only takes him one swing of the knife, clean and swift.

 

 

By some bad luck, Farid is the first to find them when they come down to the evening’s feast (the harvest has been finished just this week, and their stores filled for the winter, and so Masyaf is celebrating). He intercepts them right at the door, like he has been waiting this whole time just to torment them, and grins as he grabs Marwa’s bandaged hand.

“So they really did accept you,” he says and feigns surprise, squeezing her fingers ever so slightly. Pain bursts from the raw, fresh wound and she bites her lip and stifles a cry, determined not to give him the satisfaction.

“Why wouldn’t they?” Na’im asks behind her, and steps up as if to challenge Farid – but his voice is far too soft and his nerves aren’t quite as steeled as they need to be. His hands shake, curled into fists by his sides, and when the other boy looks into his eyes he can see the fear, clear as day.

Farid looks at him with utter contempt. “I didn’t think it would take the masters so long to recognise a coward,” he says, and Na’im flushes red in shame. “Or to realise a girl doesn’t belong here.”

Marwa rips her hand out of his grasp and ignores the way it throbs angrily at the abuse. “If they haven’t seen by now the stinking leech you are,” she snaps. “They will never see anything at all.”

Behind him, Farid’s friends snigger at her remarks – treacherous blighters they are, to betray him in such an instant. Farid looks furious, glaring at her like he would like nothing more than to wrap his hands around her throat and strangle her. Marwa feels a great deal of satisfaction at that.

“ _Safety and peace_ , Farid,” she says brightly, and doesn’t mean a word of it. She reaches back to take Na’im’s arm, and drags him away before the other boys can say anything more.

“Even at a celebration, Farid is awful company,” Na’im says to her as they lose their assailants in the crowd, weaving between assassin whites and novice greys and the drooping sleeves of scholars at Marwa’s direction. She is not headed anywhere in particular, just _away_ , somewhere where Farid won’t bother to follow.

“With any luck, he will leave us alone now,” she replies and draws to a halt finally at the corner of a long table. They are almost at the edge of the crowd, where a space is cleared for dancing and a group of travelling musicians, who are already playing lively music. Farid is nowhere to be seen.

Na’im looks around. “What should we do now?” he asks.

Marwa shrugs. “I must find my family soon,” she says. “I suppose we should speak to the Dai before the night ends too.” It would be the proper thing to do. This is a night of celebrations for the entire village, and it is supposed to be shared with everyone you know. And they have officially claimed their ranks tonight, a moment that the master who has trained them might want to share.

In some ways, Marwa thinks the Dai might prefer not to see them at all. But he is always reminding her of manners and propriety, so she will go. Just this once.

“Are you speaking sense tonight, Marwa?” Duma asks behind her, so unexpectedly that she jumps in surprise. When she turns he is there, grinning from ear to ear. “Your new rank is changing you already.”

“I’m not a fool,” she replies, perturbed. Duma laughs.

“No, you aren’t,” he agrees good-naturedly. “You just don’t _think_ sometimes.” He raps his knuckles gently against her skull and she bats his hand away, annoyed. “How are you fingers?” he asks.

“It hurts,” Na’im admits, and shoots a glance at Marwa. She is busy sulking. “As it should.”

Duma nods and runs his thumb over the neat, puckered scar where his own finger was removed to make way for a blade. “It will hurt for a while,” he advises. “And feel strange for longer still. But it is a good thing.”

“It already feels strange,” Marwa says, half to herself. And it does; even with the hand padded and wrapped in cloth, she can feel the absence of the fourth finger. Her hand moves differently, her fingers open and close and try to adjust, to fill in the gap. It will only be worse when there are no bandages and nothing to cover the healing wound, and when she learns to wield the hidden blade in its place, as all assassins do.

“You’ll get used to it,” Duma assures her with a smile. She can’t decide if his unusually cheerful mood annoys her or not – mostly it is just disconcerting. Duma is supposed to be the studious, solemn one, not so gleeful nor with a smile so readily at hand.

“Should we speak with the Dai?” Na’im suggests to distract them, before any kind of disagreement can arise. He points through the crowd and they all can see their master then, standing out of the way and engrossed in deep conversation with Rauf, the swordsmaster.

“He is busy,” Marwa says hesitantly, but Duma is shaking his head before the words are even out of her mouth.

“No one is too busy at a feast,” he insists. “Get this formality out of the way so that you can enjoy the rest of the night.”

“Formality?” Marwa repeats as he shoves her and Na’im in the direction of the Dai. “We don’t _have_ to speak to him. Everything regarding the ranks is already done.”

“It is the harvest feast,” Duma replies, hovering behind as they walk so that she cannot rethink this decision. “Come and be thankful for everything you have been given today.”

Marwa sighs irritably and makes a noise of annoyance just for him. “I _am_ thankful,” she says. “I’m only saying, we should go later, when he is not talking to someone else.”

“Dai Malik will be talking all night,” Duma tells her. “Everyone wants to speak with him, and with the Mentor. And what else will he do? Dance?” Marwa tries to imagine the Dai dancing, but she just can’t quite picture it. Beside her, Na’im fails to stifle a laugh.

Marwa wants to say something more, but they are approaching the masters now, and she doesn’t fancy a cuff on the ear for making a rude remark. The assassins notice them immediately and break off mid-sentence, before the novices can hear anything they are saying. They look far too dour for a feast. Marwa wonders what they are discussing.

Rauf brightens immediately. “Brave novices, to come near the masters on your night off,” he says to them in jest, as a way of greeting. “Most would run away before they are set to a task.”

“You’d think they might have learnt by now,” Malik agrees smoothly. “Perhaps they don’t enjoy sitting idle.”

_Ha_ , Marwa thinks dryly to herself. She barely remembers what free time is – since they were children, they have all been in training every day of their lives, from dawn to dusk. Even lazy novices don’t find much leisure, and those that do often find their tenure at Masyaf short and their departure swift.

Rauf laughs, a deep-bellied, hearty sort of sound that would lift anyone’s spirits. “Need I ask what you have done to their hands?” he says next, gesturing to their wounds. “Surely, Malik, you haven’t allowed your novices a second rank? That would be very unlike you.”

“You think perhaps I should have waited?” Malik asks, but there’s an amused smile that plays on his lips and gives away the joke.

“No, no,” Rauf says, and claps him on the shoulder. “I’m sure they are the most well-trained initiates in the whole of the brotherhood.” Finally, he turns to address the novices. “Congratulations on your ranks,” he tells them with an indulgent smile. “When they give you your blades, try not to immediately hack each other to pieces!”

“We won’t,” Marwa says, a little too bold.

Rauf shakes his head in chagrin. “That’s what they all say,” he says, mostly to himself, and then retreats.

“It is done then?” the Dai asks. “You will carry steel from tomorrow?”

“Yes, Dai,” Na’im speaks, and Marwa nods along with him.

“They grow up so fast, don’t they?” Rauf says with a smile.

“Not fast enough, some days,” Malik replies, but it is soft and lacks any of his usual ire, and the way that he casts his eyes across the three of them is almost in fondness.

“You’ll be looking for another novice before you know it,” Rauf assures him. Malik doesn’t deign to respond.

“You have done well,” he tells Marwa and Na’im, serious now. “You will make fine assassins one day. Now go and enjoy the feast.”

He has dismissed them, but they are rooted to the spot in surprise, stunned by the small bit of praise he has just thrown them. It is rare that Malik will praise them for anything for free; rarer still for him to say it here, out in the open.

Marwa recovers first. “Safety and peace, Dai,” she says in farewell. He inclines his head in thanks, and at a nudge in the back from Duma, she leads them away, back into the room proper.

“Was that so hard?” Duma asks when they are safely away, out of earshot and mostly out of sight.

“Shut up,” Marwa mutters, but there is no bite and no real reason to the words. Duma doesn’t even deign to reply, just follows her meandering path around the room until they come to a stop by a tall stone pillar, close to a group of other novices who want nothing to do with them. Na’im follows too, silent as ever, and Marwa appreciates it all the more now with Duma here, gleefully prodding at her temper.

“I am hungry,” Duma says, more to fill the silence between them than anything else. His eyes are on the long benches where people are beginning to find themselves seats, and the food arriving from the kitchens. “Will you come and sit now too?”

Na’im catches Marwa’s arm before she can agree. “In a moment?” he answers Duma, who looks between them and then shrugs and agrees without further thought.

“Hurry if you want a seat,” he advises, and Na’im nods. The older boy walks away.

“What?” Marwa asks once Duma is gone, twisting out of Na’im’s grip. “Why did you send Duma away?”

“He’ll tell me I’m being stupid,” Na’im says, and shuffles on his feet. “I just…do you feel like everything is about to change?”

“What do you mean?” Marwa says, and frowns. “Because our rank has changed? It will be different training, different errands to run, but it is still novice training.”

“Yes, but…” He waves a hand around vaguely. “I have…a feeling. That it will all be different from now on.”

“I think you’re imagining things,” she insists, and turns for the tables. He catches her once more.

“I am glad we are noviced together, Marwa,” he says in a low voice, and the sincerity in his words catches her off-guard. “I’m glad for Duma too,” he adds, before she can jump to any conclusions. “It is a blessing to have such good friends, in such a hard place.”

“I…” She’s not good at this; she has to stop and swallow her pride and her fear, forcing it all down her throat in one go. “I would be nothing without you and Duma,” she spits out finally. “You have stood by me all these years, even when most of the other boys refused to accept me.”

Na’im looks down at his feet. “It is nothing,” he mumbles. “You are a good novice, and the boys who say otherwise are blind.”

“Thankyou,” Marwa tells him with just a small smile, and then is distracted by the tall man who is making no effort to hide as he pushes through the crowd in their direction.

“Na’im, Marwa!” It is Darim, sliding between the last few people around them with a grace that belies his size. “Will you come to eat?” he asks, towering over them. Darim is only a year older than them, but he is tall for his age, especially compared to Marwa, and holds the fourth rank already – one more than Duma, even. He is top of the class, always, and was once a leader of sorts for the novices, before he graduated from their ranks. Even though they are friends with Darim, his presence still has that effect; Na’im retreats immediately, mouth snapping tightly shut even though Marwa suspects he was not quite done with their conversation yet.

“We were just coming,” Marwa tells him, determined not to be intimidated by Darim just because of his rank and his talent. She’s not completely successful, even if she does a good job of hiding it. “You don’t have to come and get us.”

“I’ve only come because the others wondered where you are,” Darim says and points to the seats Duma has chosen – their fellow novice has his back turned to them, but Sef is watching quietly from the far side of the table.

“I think Sef is worried you won’t find seats near us,” Darim says with a sly grin, never one to pass up the opportunity to belittle his younger brother.

Marwa glances at Na’im, but it is clear he has nothing more to say. “We will come now,” she says with a shrug, and heads off towards their seats.

Darim falls into step with her as easy as breathing, not missing a single beat. “Marwa,” he starts, his voice much quieter now. “After the feast, will you dance with Sef?”

She frowns, finding Sef again in the corner of her eye. He is still watching them, though as she looks at him he is distracted by Duma asking a question and turns away. “Why doesn’t he ask me himself?” she replies in a carefully measured voice.

“He intends to, but he will never work up enough courage to get the words out, especially to you.” Darim sounds mildly amused.

“Then maybe he should ask another.” There are plenty of girls in the room, sisters and daughters of assassins, and some just ordinary village folk. The assassins have no rules on dancing or courtship or anything of the like – life is short, and love is fleeting, and there are far greater things to worry about.

“The girls from the village are intimidating, or so he says.”

Marwa snorts in derision. “And I am not?”

Darim huffs a laugh. “You are _terrifying_. Which is why he will never come over here and ash for himself,” he assures her. “So…will you?”

She thinks about it for a moment. “He really wants to dance with _me_?” she asks cautiously. “You are not just asking anyone you find?”

“There are many boys who want to dance with you, Marwa,” Darim says, which is neither a yes or a no. “I promise, he will be excited to dance.”

“I will think about it,” she tells him finally, which is also not a yes or a no ( _what you give is what you get_ , she thinks with satisfaction, but Darim is not bothered in the slightest).

“Thankyou,” he says warmly, and then glances back to ensure that Na’im is still with them. “Come,” he adds, louder now. “It is time to eat.”

Na’im, who has fallen behind, hurries to catch up with them, and together they turn towards the feast, and the rest of the bright night.


	10. they come in the night

There’s a sense of unease that ripples through the mountain air when she wakes the following morning, her eyes heavy and her hand aching. It’s like the feeling that settles deep into your gut when you stand on the edge of a cliff and look down into the free-flowing waters of the river that surrounds Masyaf and imagine jumping, or falling. She wonders what has happened during the night to put the brotherhood on such an edge.

There are several novices gathered in the gloomy hallway outside, waiting around for it to be time for the morning meal but all too aware that if they step foot anywhere near the mess hall too early, they will be serving the master assassins or washing dishes all morning. All of them turn when she leaves her quarters, and they’re all wearing similar masks of shock and pity, which she does not understand.

“What?” she challenges them, not so enthused about being stared at first thing in the morning.

Most of them turn away. “Didn’t you hear?” one boy pipes up. He is young, and looks almost excited about the unusual morning even though it seems like whatever has happened is not good news.

“No,” Marwa replies, and walks towards the little boy’s group. “What has happened?”

“They found someone dead in the castle!” the boy tells her, and rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“Hush, Ahmed.” Another boy, one she knows is called Jawhar, puts his hand on the little one’s shoulder to silence him. Ahmed’s face flushes red with embarrassment and he withdraws, muttering a quick apology as he gets out of the older boy’s way. “You are novice to Malik Al-Sayf, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Marwa says suspiciously. “Why?”

The boy shifts uncomfortably. “It was one of his novices that was found,” he says slowly, and does not meet her eye. “I’m sorry. We should not have been who told you.”

Her head spins. Duma or Na’im, dead? No, it couldn’t be, not here at Masyaf, where they are safe in the arms of the brotherhood. It had to be a trick, a whisper a novice had come up with when they couldn’t find the real reason for the unease. She knew better than to believe the word of a few novices.

But then again…neither boy was here.

“ _Who_ was it?” she demands.

Jawhar shakes his head. “We know nothing more. We thought it might have been you, until you came out that door.”

“Wonderful,” she mutters and turns away, intent on finding someone who can tell her what is really going on; preferably someone with a few more ranks than the novices in the hallway.

“Safety and peace be upon you, Marwa,” Jawhar says to her retreating back, and something about the way he says it sends a chill down her spine.

In the nearby halls, no one bothers her; they just hurry past looking strained and important, like the whole castle has something to do except the novices. She heads for the mess hall, taking a longer route than usual which takes her past a window that looks down into the main courtyard, just in case she can spot the boys or their mentor outside. The courtyard is all but deserted though, just a few scattered white hoods and the usual guards. No one sparring in the cool air of the morning, no novices studying, no masters talking or overseeing training or whatever else it is the masters do when all the novices have been sent away. Malik will be with the Mentor then, she guesses; he is one of his best advisors, and he hadn’t told her or the boys to meet with him until later today.

She continues to the mess hall, two halls away. It has just opened for the morning meal, and she collects a bowl of sloppy gruel (an English concoction she is not overly fond of), and sans the room for someone who will answer her questions.

“Marwa!” a blessedly familiar voice says behind her, slightly out of breath, and the knot in her stomach loosens somewhat. Duma appears at her side, forehead creased in worry and eyes frantic. “I have been looking everywhere for you.”

“And I you,” she replies, and leads him to the nearest table so that she can set down her unappetising breakfast. “What’s going on this morning? Jawhar said they found someone dead, but-”

She stops short because something in Duma’s face changes, and suddenly he looks deeply pained. “He didn’t tell you who?” he asks.

“He thought it was one of us,” she tells him. “But if you’re here…”

“Na’im is dead, Marwa,” Duma says abruptly, and she is stunned into silence. “He was found just before the sun rose, in one of the eastern halls when one of the masters went to send a bird to Acre.”

She sinks slowly down onto the seat next to her. Duma grips her arm to make sure she does not fall – apparently, he has had plenty more time to process this news. “Where is the Dai?” she asks without thinking.

Duma shrugs. “Trying to find out what has happened,” he says. “He was killed with an assassin’s knife, inside the castle, and they must find the killer before he decides he might take another.” He sits down next to her and watches her, like he’s afraid she might swoon and faint like the English ladies are said to be wont to do. She is stronger than that though (and besides, she has seen more boys faint than women, especially at the sight of blood).

“It makes no sense,” she says, half to herself. “Why would anyone kill Na’im, of all the novices? Of all the _Assassins_?”

“Perhaps they didn’t mean to kill anyone in particular,” Duma replies. “Maybe he was just the first person to walk by.”

“Why was he in the eastern side of the castle anyway? He has no business over there, especially in the middle of the night.”

Duma shakes his head. He has no more answers than she does; than anyone has. “I will find out what happened,” Marwa says and stands abruptly, her chair grating loudly against the flagstone of the floor.

“How?” Duma asks, but does not get up to join her. His fingers are clenched around his spoon, stirring the gruel around his bowl aimlessly. She wonders if he’s eaten any of it at all, or just stirred it from the moment he got here.

“I don’t know,” she admits, bolder than she should. “I will look around maybe, find whoever saw him first. There must be clues somewhere.”

“And if you find the wrong side of the man who killed him?” he asks, like she is a child, a naïve young novice with no rank or blade to fight with (a child she still is, but by now she is not so young and soft-skinned – and she has real, cold steel pressed to her wrist, to go with the iron in her eyes).

“Then I will let him feel what it is to die.” Her words are fierce, and she finds she isn’t so shocked anymore, not so forlorn. She is just angry, vengeful fury leaking slowly into her veins. _Allah_ help anyone who crosses her now; even Duma shows the signs of defeat, waving her onward reluctantly.

“Be safe, Marwa,” he says as she takes her leave, and she has never heard him so sincere. The things he will not say dance across his face – fear ( _for her?_ ), and anguish, and grief. She understands.

“I’m looking for answers, not trouble,” she promises. “No harm will come to me.”

“The two go hand in hand, Marwa,” he replies, but she doesn’t hear him because she is already gone, weaving her way through the tables with purpose and a deadly kind of grace. Behind her, he sighs, and stares down into his bowl of grey slop, wondering if maybe he has just made a mistake.

She almost runs into the Dai the moment she steps outside the kitchen door, so quickly is she moving. She stops herself right at the last moment and rocks back on her heels in surprise, looking up at him.

“Marwa,” he says in mild surprise (if only she could surprise him any other time; but no, this is a rare circumstance). “Where are you going?”

“To the eastern tower,” she admits, without even trying to hide her motives.

“You have heard the news then,” the Dai sighs and runs his hand down his face. “Na’im is-”

“I know,” she interrupts, before he can say anything more. “Duma has told me everything.”

“News travels fast, I see,” he says wearily, and looks towards the doors of the mess hall. “Is Duma here?”

Marwa nods. “Inside,” she confirms.

“You won’t come and sit with us for a while?”

He is being unusually kind, in the wake of Na’im’s death. It doesn’t sit well with her, like the whispers that pass along the castle walls and the storm that is gathering in the distant skies outside. He should be questioning her reasons for wanting to visit the tower, or sending her off to some kind of training, berating her for having slept so late into the morning when there is work to be done.

“There is nothing more to be said about it,” she says, and sidesteps around him. “And I am not very hungry.”

She hasn’t really told the Dai what she is doing, but as always, he seems to already know – even on a strange day like this, he doesn’t miss a beat. “Don’t go poking at any danger you might find,” he warns her, but he doesn’t try to stop her from going. “You cannot bring him back to life, and vengeance is not worth sacrificing your own life for.”

“I don’t want revenge,” she replies. “I just want to know _why_.”

The Dai eyes her thoughtfully. “And you think you will find the answer in the tower?” he asks. “That you will go up there and find something the masters have missed, when they looked not so long ago?”

Marwa frowns. “Where else would I find it? In the ground with Na’im?”

He shakes his head at her. “Have I taught you nothing?” he says, half to himself. “The scholar’s quarters are all around the tower, you know this. I should think, therefore, that any answers would now lie in the library.” He pauses, and then adds, “Do you not have a brother who sleeps near the eastern wing?”

Her eyes widen in understanding, and the Dai smiles at her, just a little bit. “You come and tell me, whatever you find, understand?” he says to her.

“I will, Dai,” she promises; her mind is already far away, plotting her course through the library, the ways she could gather information both from Zehad and the other scholars who are currently at their work. Surely _one_ of them must have seen or heard something during the night.

“Safety and peace, Marwa,” the Dai farewells her, and it sounds eerily like the way that Jawhar had said it earlier. The traditional farewell echoes in her mind as she departs. It bothers her as she watches the Dai enter the kitchens, and niggles at her as she walks away, impossible to push from her thoughts.

She goes down to the library, to search for her brother. He is easy to find, ghosting between the shelves with a deep frown etched into his face. He brightens exponentially when he sees her, relief clear in his eyes.

“Marwa!” he exclaims, and almost drops the books he is holding. “I’m glad to see you, today of all days.”

“If only Na’im was here to share the day with us,” she replies gloomily.

Zehad considers her, and then sets down his books on a nearby shelf. “I’m sorry about your friend,” he says softly, and draws her into a tight embrace. “It is not fair, for him to die so young, and in his own home.”

“He was telling me, just last night,” she mumbles into the coarse fabric of his scholar’s robes. “That it was like everything was about to change. How could he know?”

“Oh, Marwa,” her brother says, and smooths a hand over her hair. “He would not have known, not really. You must know that.”

“It is just strange,” she replies. “That he was here, convinced something was not right, and now he is gone. And it is even worse that the killer was here, in the castle.” She takes a deep breath, and then pulls away from him and dashes at her eyes with her sleeve, trying to erase the existance of the tears that have sprung to life there before they can fall.

“I wanted to ask,” she continues, when she has composed herself. “If you have heard anything; if there are rumours, about last night. If the scholars heard or saw anything strange happening.”

“I hear a lot of things in the library,” Zehad says, voice dropping even lower. “But tell me, _why_ do you want to know?”

“I just want to know why he was killed,” she explains grudgingly. “Nothing more.”

“You aren’t planning on looking for revenge?”

“No,” she says firmly, and wonders why no one will trust her today. “It is only for my own peace of mind. And the Dai told me to ask; he sent me here to investigate, when I told him I was going to try anyway.”

Zehad eyes her like he doesn’t quite believe her, but he doesn’t question her any further. “I have heard a thing or two,” he says quietly, glancing around to be sure no one else is listening in. “There are a few of the older men, who say they were woken in the night by noises that could have been a scuffle, but they were sure at the time that it was just the wind. And Nasir, the keeper of the scrolls, has not risen from his bed this morning. He claims to have fallen ill. The boy was found on the ground right outside his door, but so far he refuses to say if he had heard or seen anything.”

“Do you think if I asked, he might tell me?” Marwa asks, a plan already coming together in her mind.

Zehad shrugs. “You could try. He is old and harmless. Comes from a synagogue in Damascus, where men do nothing but read and pray all their lives.”

“Thankyou, Zehad,” she says, and turns for the door.

“Don’t do anything reckless,” he warns her as she tries to leave. “Question him, and nothing more. The masters will take care of the rest.”

“I am not a child, Zehad,” Marwa throws over her shoulder, slightly annoyed at him. “I know how to investigate, and how to report to my elders.”

“Be sure that you do,” he presses anyway, and then turns to pick up his books again. She shakes her head, and then escapes before he can give her anymore unwanted advice.

She’s not bothered on her way up to the eastern tower, even though she passes several of her superiors on her way there. The air of tension in the castle today is strange – she’s not used to such fear and uncertainty being able to infect a place like Masyaf. All her life her home has been safe, a place where their enemies have no hope of finding them. And now, all in one night, that illusion has been ripped away from her and broken into pieces on the ground. Nothing feels safe now, not even in the light of day, amidst all the other assassins.

The keeper of the scrolls sleeps at the end of the hall, closest to the open tower room, where light floods through the window from the morning sun. The hall is deserted, and the floors are sparkling clean – there is no sign of murder here, not even a splatter of blood left on the stones under her feet to mark the place where Na’im was killed. Even so, just the knowledge of his death makes her feel strange, and she hesitates outside the door to wonder if she is standing where he lay, if she has stepped across it. It seems like a cursed spot now, a place she would rather avoid, as silly and superstitious as it is.

She raises her hand to knock, still distracted, and then pauses, her knuckles an inch from the wood. There are _voices_ coming from inside the room, angry voices that are hissing at each other like they don’t want to be heard. Neither of them sounds ill. She lowers her hand slowly and, checking that no one is around, presses her ear against the door instead.

“…stupid boy!” she hears immediately, the words just managing to filter through the heavy wood. “They have been looking high and low all morning, do you not know that? You cannot commit such a crime in the middle of Masyaf and think no one will notice. And you do it here, outside my door! So now I am suspect too! Do you know any sense?”

That is clearly the voice of Nasir, she thinks; the gravelly tones and harsh demeanour suit what she knows of him. She has run afoul of his temper once or twice in the library, and has had to listen to the same kind of beratement.

“What else was I to do?!” another voice answers, and she reels back in surprise, for that is a voice she knows without a doubt. That is Matek, who thinks he should be handed praise and ranks without earning them, who taunts and teases her and tries to think himself better than all the others, like that will be enough to make him an assassin.

Matek, who sometimes doesn’t say the creed when they are all asked to recite it, she realises with a jolt.

Marwa presses her ear against the door again. “-heard us talking,” Matek is saying. “You want me to just let him go free?”

“He is a novice!” Nasir replies. “A stupid child, just like you! Bribe him, or scare him, make sure he won’t talk. Take him out in the wind and rain and throw him off the cliffs if you like! But do not kill him right outside my door!”

“He novices under the Dai!” Matek argues. “He will run straight to hi master and tell him the truth.”

“Even worse!” Nasir exclaims. “We do not need dead bodies of any kind, boy, especially not novices that are sure to be missed. And not left about the castle for assassins to find either!” There is a noise that sounds like a hard slap, and Matek yelps in pain.

“Out of here, now,” Nasir continues. “You must go to Ramzi, and tell him what you have done. Tell him the new plans, the new day to move. I implore you to be more polite than you have been to me, if you want-” Marwa pulls away from the door, and looks around frantically. Matek is going to come out here, and there is nowhere in this hallway to hide. Her eyes alight on the tower room to her left, accessible through a large, open arch. In particular, she spots the grand rafters of its wooden ceiling, and the shadowy spaces between them. Yes – that will do, if she can get there quick enough.

She backs away from Nasir’s door, and then sprints, light-footed, across the hall and into the tower room. There is a small bookcase shoved up against the wall opposite the window – as the door behind her opens, she scales it and leaps up to grab onto the rafters, pulling herself up with just the strength of her shoulders.

She hardly dares breathe as she creeps into the corner above the doorway, but Matek hasn’t seen her. He shuts the door slowly, with just the softest creak as it falls into place, and then he makes off down the hall. Except his shuffling steps don’t carry him _away_ from Marwa but rather _towards_ her, towards the tower. She sucks in a surprised breath and then holds it, clinging to the rafters like a startled cat. What business could he have in a scholar’s quiet reading corner? There is nothing here but a chair and the bookcase, not even a lantern or a pot of ink.

He doesn’t look up as he enters, thankfully, just left and right furtively, like he might find someone lurking in the room’s cobwebbed corners. When he is satisfied that he is alone, he leans out the window – judging the height? – and then climbs out feet-first, disappearing below the windowsill.

Marwa lets out the breath she’s been holding, and drops down from the rafters. Where could he be going? There is nothing out that side of the castle except a long drop onto the cliffs, and then into the ravine that feeds the lake. There is barely even a guard to watch this side of the castle, because there is nowhere for their enemy to come from out there except the mountains – and to get across the ravine, there is only the narrow bridge to and from the Cradle, a great ask to move an army across. It’s not good climbing out there either; this part of Masyaf suffers the worst of the wind and sun and rain, and as such the stone has been battered smooth and crumbly, terrible to find hand- and foot-holds on. It is a suicide climb for all but the most daring – or desperate – of climbers.

Cautiously, she peeks out the window, just to see if he is dead – but no, there he is, picking his way down and across to the head of the path into the Cradle, where the bridge stretches out across the long drop to the river. He is going into the mountains, she realises in surprise. And then, finally, she puts it all together. Matek has killed Na’im. Nasir is in league with him. And the rumours of Templars in the mountains are true – Matek is going now to meet them, to report whatever it is he needs to report, important information about their plans against Masyaf, whatever they are.

She’d promised not to jump into trouble, or to go out into the mountains, but the memory of this is only a distant thought in the back of her mind as she climbs out the window after him. She has to find out what he’s going to tell his masters, or stop him from getting there. There will not be another chance like this to find the Templars in the mountains.

Malik _had_ told her to investigate the murder, after all. This was still that…right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are my life and soul and without them I die (and so do more novices)


	11. into the mountains

The moment she exits the castle, the wind grabs at her, pushing and pulling and trying to buffet her off the wall. She clings hard to the windowsill, hooks the toes of her boots into firmer grips, and then chances a look down. Matek is almost at the bottom, and hasn’t looked up yet; with luck, he will not. She has no plan of what to do if he does.

The climb down is agonisingly slow, compared to her normal speed. The sun is warm on her back, but the wind is chilled, and without gloves her bare fingers quickly start to numb. It makes it hard to find her way, as she can’t feel which brides are soft and crumbling around the edges, likely to slip away under her weight, and which are solid and will hold her faithfully. Matek crosses the bridge when she is still halfway up, and disappears into the Cradle without so much as a backwards glance.

She stops and curses then, eyeing the stretch of wall left below her. At least she doesn’t have to be silent anymore; but she will lose him if she is too long getting down the wall. Cursing again, she eases herself a few more metres down towards the ground, and then lets herself dangle from a ledge of rock, fingers straining as she judges the fall. It is long, but not so far, so long as she lands right. She is hanging over the trailhead, where the path up the side of Masyaf meets the bridge into the Cradle. On all sides are sharp cliffs, and sharper rocks.

She takes a deep breath, and then lets herself fall. As she hits the ground, she tucks into a roll that knocks the wind from her a bit, but lands her on her feet right where the bridge meets the cliff. She wobbles, teeters, and stares down into the long drop with abject horror. And then she forces herself to take a step back.

Okay. She is alive, but Matek is getting away. Without hesitation, she springs into a jog and crosses the bridge, disappearing into the mountain.

The ground slopes steeply downward immediately after the bridge, and then levels out into a meadow of thick grass, surrounded on all sides by the jagged teeth of the mountain’s edge that reach up towards the sky. The high valley is thick with fog still at this time of the morning, billowing slowly between trees and dotted headstones.

She cannot see Matek, but if she stops, she can still hear him, stomping his way through the long grass. She follows along the cliff wall, trying not to disturb the grass as much as he does. Has he learnt nothing in all the time he’s been here? Or is he so confident that no one will be out here, or following him, that he feels no need to try and disguise the signs of his passage? Certainly, he is making no effort to outrun her; she had expected him to be on the other side of the Cradle by the time she’d entered, but she’s almost caught up to him already. He’s wasting time, walking slow and kicking at the grass and muttering to himself about one thing or another.

As she gets closer, she can see his silhouette through the fog, the vague details of his novice robes as they stir in the breeze, revealing the long pants and sturdy boots he wears underneath, best suited to running and climbing and fighting. His hood is down, letting the sun touch on his cropped black hair and the brown skin of his neck. He’s stopped to stare at a headstone, a tall cross that rises from the ground at a bit of an angle, like it might crumble under its own weight at any moment.

Marwa stops and crouches behind a large bush to wait for him to move on, peering through the scrubby branches and leaves of her protection. Disgust rises in her stomach as she watches him – how could he be here, moving the clothes of an assassin, when he is on his way to betray everyone at Masyaf? And how could he betray them anyway? The assassins had taken him in off the streets of some war-torn city, had given him a life he should never have known, being the poor and abandoned orphan he is, and yet he betrays them? She can’t even fathom it, Masyaf born and bred as she is.

He snarls something and kicks dirt at the headstone and then stomps on, finally. She follows doggedly, ghosting along behind him, careful to always keep a tree or rock or bush between them. He never looks back though, never once stops to listen for any sound that might give her away. Marwa hopes she will never find herself that cocky and ignorant, that she would assumes no one could possibly get the better of her.

He leads her out of the other side of the Cradle and into the mountains proper on a thread of a goat path, winding hither-and-thither between massive boulders and beside sheer cliffs and sharp inclines. They climb up the next peak, high above the lower farmlands that are lost to the distance, and then turn east and circle around the mountain. It is a long and dogged walk, with the sun glaring down and the wind picking up, and the long howl of a wolf echoing around the range periodically. Somewhere around the back of the mountains, Marwa’s stomach starts to rumble, and she wishes she’d eaten something before setting off on this hare-brained excursion. Malik had invited her to breakfast. She should have gone.

Oh, the Dai was going to _kill_ her. Wandering off into the mountains after a Templar, with only a hidden blade to her name. It had seemed like a good choice at first, but half an hour in, she’s beginning to see the folly of it. Not that she could turn back now – she’d wasted enough time now that she might as well keep going, and see what she could find.

Somewhere ahead of her, Matek scrambles over some boulders, taking a sharp left turn off the thin trail he’s been following, and disappears into the wilderness. The act pulls Marwa from her reverie – it is the first time he has diverged from the ibex tracks he has been following. She climbs the boulder slowly, and peeks out over the top of them.

There is a thin copse of trees on the other side, which line the edge of a small hanging valley. The valley is well-occupied; a fire smoulders in the centre of it, and a glistening thread of a stream weaves through the other side of it, tumbling off the edge of the mountain and down into the swift river waters below. Two bedrolls are unrolled and unmade in the grass close to the fire, and a small cooking pot sits on a rock nearby. There is no sign of the people that are camped here, only Matek, striding through the grass with a stiffness that wasn’t evident in his stride earlier.

“Ramzi!” he yells across the valley, ignorant of who might hear him. Suddenly aware that there are two more men around here somewhere, and she is in an exposed position, Marwa slithers silently back down the rocks and continues up the ibex track, spying a way to get in amongst the rocks at the top of the valley.

“Ah, _Hadar_!” she hears a man’s voice say as she crawls through the trees, carried to her on the wind. She freezes, but he is nowhere near him; he is over by the stream, climbing up from the river. She can just see him through the bushes that hide her. Over his shoulder, she can see distant Masyaf too.

“The boy has returned!” the man continues as he reaches the valley. Matek is already at the top of the track, waiting to greet him. “Shouting my name to the winds of the earth for all men to hear, Allah save me,” he continues, and cuffs Matek none-too-lightly over the back of the head.

This is Ramzi then, Marwa decides, stealing glimpses of him as she squeezes her way into a tumble of boulders. He is of Assyrian stock, dark-skinned and strong-jawed, with the sort of face you could find on any middle-aged man from Jerusalem to Alep. He is not particularly handsome, and the permanent scowl he wears only makes him uglier still. His mouth doesn’t seem able to make any other expression, his lip pulled back on the right side by a puckered scar that runs from the lobe of his ear to the corner of his mouth, old but never properly healed. She winces at the sight of it, and the thought of how painful it would have been when it was new.

“You are early, boy,” the other man, Hadar, says as they take their seats around the fire. Ramzi sits on one of the bedrolls, facing the rocks. Marwa presses herself closer to the ground as his sharp eyes range across the boulders searching for something. Overhead, an eagle screeches into the wind breaks the spell. Ramzi returns his attention to Matek.

“ _Early_?” he repeats, spitting the word into the embers of the fire. “He was here yesterday. He is not supposed to come back until the moon changes again.”

“The old man told me to come,” Matek says, picking nervously at the grass. “There have been events at the castle.”

“Ah, _events_ , that’s what you are calling them now,” Ramzi taunts. “What have you messed up this time, boy?”

“A boy was found – a novice – murdered in the castle,” Matek explained. “Killed by his own blade. The master assassins are suspicious.”

“And who killed the boy?”

Matek stares hard at the ground, unable to meet the eye of his superior. “I did,” he admits after a moment, reluctant to speak the words.

Ramzi leans back in his seat. “As I thought,” he says, though he doesn’t sound at all satisfied in the prediction. “Tell me boy, how you get more foolish every day.”

“I did what I had to do!” Matek protests, though it is no show of defiance; he is cowed by this great, ugly Templar, too afraid of his boot to stand against him. “He hid outside the door, listened to the old man _you_ sent while he went on and on and on about the plan, and these meetings, and everything else. He was running straight to the Mentor with all of our plans.”

Ramzi shakes his head slowly. “ _How_?” he asks, like he cannot understand. “Every day the assassins grow more cunning, stronger in force, and harder to catch. But you always stay the same, stupid boy. Are you not the top of your class? The best of them all? If you work so hard, how does one little boy sneak in and hear everything you say?”

“It was by his own pure luck,” Matek tries to explain. “And I _am_ the better novice. He is dead, and I am alive, after all.”

“And the whole of their _brotherhood_ is looking for you! How do you know one hasn’t followed you into the mountains now? How long will we wait until they jump on our heads?” Marwa freezes, barely daring to breathe, but Ramzi does not miss a beat; he _couldn’t_ know she is here, she tells herself. He _couldn’t._

“You are useless, boy, haven’t I always told you? You come to me all these months, but you bring me nothing useful. You know nothing about the Apple, you fail to join their ranks, you learn none of their secrets. All you bring me is trouble, or news of trouble, or men who must be disposed of.”

“I never asked for the man in the mountains to be killed,” Matek argues, but it is weak and he must force the words out past his reluctant tongue. “If I have made them suspicious with the death of the boy, you began it when you killed him.”

“I left the man scattered in the mountains for the lions, never to be found,” Hadar pipes up. “Not perfectly whole in the halls of Masyaf.”

“I didn’t have time to move him,” Matek replies and hides his face, thoroughly chastened.

“And what are we supposed to do now, boy?” Ramzi asks. “You run out of time for one simple job, and so we give up? Disband? Let this infernal war end, so the assassins may mould the world to their image?”

“Nasir says we wait,” Matek tells him. “Three weeks, for the new moon.”

 _Three weeks_? Three weeks, and then Masyaf is going to be set upon by Templars unknown. How many would there be? She shifts a little in her seat, trying to see better.

Ramzi is not happy. “All well and good for you to wait, but what about your father, boy? The Grandmaster does not _wait_ , especially when the plan was so close to fruition. You have ruined everything, you understand?”

“We have waited years for you to bring us the Apple,” Hadar interjects. “Everything you have ever promised, you have failed to deliver, boy. And now you come to tell us that you have destroyed one more thing! And we must bear your bad news!”

Matek cringes, but doesn’t make a sound. Marwa wonders if he knows they would be like this before he came here. If so, he is brave, she thinks, to have walked in without hesitation.

There is a long, tense silence. Ramzi is the one to break it, when it is clear they have beaten all excuses from the boy. “You go back now,” he orders. “You run back to your masters before they start to miss you, and then you pray to Allah that your father doesn’t agree when I ask for your head as payment for all the trouble you’ve caused me.”

Matek pales at the thought of it. _Would a Templar kill his son_? Marwa wonders. Sons are precious, unless you are blessed with a bounty of them, but she doubts Matek is from a large family. He is too uncomfortable within the ranks of the novices, too distant and individual. But a Templar is a Templar. If you don’t fit into their vision of the world, there is no use for you to continue living; that is what she knows about the Templars. She suspects this is true of everyone, regardless of blood or status or age.

Matek stands, and Ramzi stands too. Hadar remains seated. “I will return with better news when I have it,” Matek says in a voice that shakes and struggles to remain steady. When he gets no reply, he turns to leave.

Ramzi stops him one step later with a hand pressed hard into his shoulder. “One more thing, boy, before you go,” he says. Matek and Hadar both look up at him in confusion. His contorted mouth twists into a smile. “You brought a rat here with you, and I don’t like rats. Why don’t you go and flush it out?” He points to the rocks.

To Marwa.

Her stomach drops like a stone. How does he _know_? Why had he let her stay here so long, wedged in between the boulders? Even Matek has no idea she is there, looking between Ramzi and the rocks with confusion. The older man pushes him closer.

“Go,” he orders. The boy walks uncertainly across the meadow. “You will see. Bring it back to me, so I can see also!”

And he _would_ see, Marwa knows as she evaluates her options. There aren’t many. Back the way she came, through the trees and up above the valley, is the best way – but Matek is too close now to do it without being seen, and to do it quickly will mean exposing herself. It is better than jumping into the river, at least, which is probably her _worst_ idea of the last five seconds.

Run. She needs to run.

She pulls a deep breath in and out of her lungs, steadying herself. _Nothing can be done right if it is done in haste_ , the Dai would say when she was younger, and he would send them to chase one another up and down the canyon. She had always been swift and clever on her feet, but with the boys on her tail she had been wont to rush, to let the thrill of the chase guide her into a wrong turn, or a bad fall. This time, it would not be excitement or joy that she must stave off, but the cold waves of fear that lap at her feet, threatening to rise up and swallow her whole.

Matek grows closer, and Ramzi’s smile grows wider. It is time to go, before she is too late.

She bursts from the rocks like a startled deer, springing up atop the tumble of boulders that she had thought were hiding her well, and leaping from rock to rock. Hadar shouts in surprise behind her, and Ramzi’s laughter roars in her ears as she bolts into the trees. “Go, boy!” he yells after her, and then she hears the tread of Matek’s boots behind her, frighteningly close.

Marwa pushes herself harder, dodging between the trees and scrambling up the steep side of the valley. Too late, she realises she has not quite gone far enough, and is trapped in the section of the slope that is filled with loose dirt and shale. It crumbles and slips away under her fingers, showering down onto Matek. Right below her, he curses, and then launches upwards and latches onto her ankle as she scrabbles for a foothold in the landslip.

“Ah!” she cries out in fury and struggles in his grip, sliding down the steep incline as her handholds grow loose and fall away. He holds on with grim determination, his jaw set.

By pure luck, as she slides, her free foot finds a sturdy rock to brace against. She hooks her toe up against it, lifts herself, and then kicks Matek square in the forehead.

He yelps in pain and his grip weakens; kicking again, she throws him off and sends him sliding down in a shower of stones. Marwa doesn’t waste time watching him go; she leaps to the left, out of the loose ground and onto solid rock that is laughably easy to clamber up. She almost lets herself believe she is free.

At the top, she pulls herself up over the edge of the rocks and finds herself staring straight into the ugly face of Ramzi, with nowhere to go.


End file.
